Film folk; close-ups of the men, women, and children who make the movies

^oh 'V/aathei*

CORNELL

UNIVERSITY

T, I BRARY

A Gift from

the Performing Arts Collection

of

Marvin K. Frankle

Class of 1931

CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

3 1924 060 247 859

Cornell University
Library

The original of tliis book is in
tine Cornell University Library.

There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.

http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924060247859

FILM FOLK

Cijurtesy of Majestic KolianrB Stud

D. N. GrilFith'a first production, ten years af;,), cost ,M"litv doU'irs
— tins one cost luorc tlian that

FILM FOLK

"CLOSE-UPS" OF THE MEN,
WOMEN, AND CHILDREN
WHO MAKE THE "MOVIES"

BY

ROB WAGNER

ILLUSTRATED
WITH PHOT0OBAPH8

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.

1918

Copyright, 1918, by
The Century Co.

Copyrieht, 1915, 1916, 1917, by
Thh Curtis Publishing Company

Published March, 1918

Acknowledgment is hereby-
made to The Saturday Eve-
ning Post for permission to
reprint these stories.

FOREWORD

The writer wishes to confess at the outset that he is
not an actor, director, extra girl, camera man, movie
queen, or any of the other first-persons who voice forth
these tales.

As a detached, but interested, observer he watched the
moving picture industry grow from its crude beginnings
to the huge thing it has become, and during all those
years he wondered why some one of the great army of
publicity men employed by the various studios did not
splash in and tell the truth about the film folk, finally
concluding that it was either that their familiarity with
the truth had bred contempt, or that the companies, for
some strange reason, had employed only fiction writers.

When these stories were written the author had only
one hope : that they would be amusing and entertaining ;
and only one purpose: that, being merely a painter, he
needed the literary exercise. Imagine then his surprise
when he received the following letter from a profound
and corrugated professor of English at a large univer-
sity:

"The arts of music, sculpture, architecture, painting,
and the drama are as old as human records. No new art
has come into the world within the history of man, until
the birth of the photo-drama. Though all the other arts
are more or less related to one another, and the photo-
drama has borrowed something from her older sisters,

FOREWORD

nevertheless it is a new art-form. Future historians will
regard this new birth as an epoch marking event.

"You are fortunate in having been present at this
birth, and the intimate pictures you give will be . . .
etc., etc.

"What a contribution to the literature of the drama if
some writer of the 16th century (even though he had
been a very bad one) had given us a little peek into the
lives of Shakespere's actors, stage hands, and press
agents !

Heavens, to think I had been singing so glibly of a
cosmic event! It is just as well that the critics are ac-
cessories only after the fact, for had this lofty purpose
been in contemplation Posterity would have been denied,
as the writer would have been too self-consicous to have
sung at all.

But here are the tales; written for the moment, but
destined by the prof, to go bowling down the ages as
Dramatic Literature (even though it be very bad litera-
ture) .

An author has one great advantage in writing for
Posterity. It, at least, cannot get out an injunction for-
bidding publication.

CONTENTS

CKAPXEB PAGE

I The Film Favorite 3

II The Movie Queen 59

III The Vicissitudes op Victob 112

W "Ready! Actiost! Camera! Go!" . . . . 160

V Supes and Supermen 209

VI "Mother, Mat I Go in the Films?" .... 244

VII The Bell-ringers 276

VIII Plots and Counterplots 317

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

D. H. Griffith's first production, ten years ago,

cost eighty dollars Frontispiece

FACING
FACE

Nowadays, when we do the animal stuff, we are the ones
who occupy the cages 16

These are the scenes the school-girls like 17

Charlie Chaplin and Eob Wagner 48

Douglas Fairbanks has to keep in perfect physical trim 49

Phillipe Smalley, Mme. Schumann-Heink, and Jack Kerri-
gan 80

Pavlowa selecting her costumes 81

The make-up man at the Universal Studios .... 96

Visitors watching Western Company from platform . . 97

I'd sooner leave the shooting of the sea stuff to the
sailor 128

I once stayed in the water for two days waiting for some
fool porpoises . , 129

By the use of the telephone he can direct the movements
of thousands of troops 144

If one hopes to shoot a hobo in his sleeper one must ex-
pect to be discomfited 145

Cecil De Mille coaching Mary Piekford 176

Even a knight grows tired of wearing "tin cans" all day 177

Fraser directing and camera men ready to shoot picture
No. 1 as the people are swept beneath their bridge . . 192

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING
PACE

Thomas Ince directing a round peg into a square hole . 193

A feud of a few weeks' standing added much to the fury
of a battle 224

Only professionals can do it like this 225

Daredevils are hurt in spite of nets 240

Extra men going to their dressing rooms 241

Employment Office of the Eelianee Company .... 256

Society stuff is called working in soup and fish . . . 257

Sixty tons of water will presently come tearing down the

stairs 272

Wiring up the Queen of the Fairies 273

This is not a town in Normandy 304

Scenes are no longer painted, they are built .... 305

The coronation of Charles VII 320

This is how the movies killed the melodrama .... 321

Cecil De Mille, Mary Pickford and Ian Hay sitting with
the "Germans" 336

Wallace Beid, Hobart Bosworth, and Geraldine Farrar . 337

FILM FOLK

FILM FOLK

I

THE FILM FAVORITE
(AN ACTOR'S STORY)

THE two tragedies of my youth were my "beautiful
eyes" and my "lovely hair." How I detested
them! My family, however, thought I was the most
irresistible boy in all the world. It seems to me that
my whole childhood was wasted in Fauntleroy clothes,
frilled shirts, and Florida water. Being at heart a
regular boy, I did my best to profane this exaggerated
beauty; and I remember one time, when I had been all
dosied up for the photographer, with what diabolic joy
I sneaked off to my sister 's room and cut great wads out
of my golden forelocks and clipped my lashes to the
roots. Little did I realize that some day my cow eyes
and lovely hair were to be my capital stock in trade.

To add to my youthful cross, I was compelled to speak
pieces on every possible and impossible occasion. I did
not suffer much from this burden during the "moo-cow-
moo" period of my babyhood; but when I was about
eleven years old and began to develop a sense of shame
I endured acute tortures whenever I was called on to

3

4 FILM FOLK

face an audience and declare that curfew should not
ring that night! The preparation for one of these
elocutionary spells was almost as painful as the or-
deal itself; for it took hours for my sainted mother to
scrub, brush, and polish me up so that I should be
worthy of my plush panties, frilled shirt, and wide
Byronic coUar. If persisted in long enough, such
Olympian demands will break the spirit of any boy, and
by the time I reached the sixth grade I had become
shameless. One day, at the end of the school term, I
stood before two hundred people and held them spell-
bound while, in a beautiful lyric tenor, I recited Spar-
tacus' Address to the Gladiators.

I know I made a magnificent picture as I rose to the
full splendor of my four feet six, while Spartacus furi-
ously urged the slaves to action, for I have my photo-
graph before me as I write. It is the last of a stupen-
dous series of Paris panels and cabinets that recorded
the physical and sartorial glories of my childhood. I
think, however, the high-water mark of my beauty was
attained several years earlier, for in this hand-tinted
print I seem to be too large for the Russian blouse.

GETTING TO BE A REAL BOT

At about this time I began to grow, and my beauty
went into eclipse. My shame had long ago departed,
and now I began to steal, torture cats, smoke corn-silk,
break windows, fight with the Micks, and otherwise be-
have in a very un-Eollolike manner. Mother was much
distraught, though father seemed strangely unperturbed.
My personal appearance was the hardest blow to her
maternal pride, for in my savage revolution I had gone

THE FILM FAVORITE 5

from plush and white linen to the depths of depravity —
corduroy and sweaters. For several years I was ex-
ceedingly plain; the hair clipped close to my sconce
only emphasized the bright spark of sinister intent that
lurked in my eye.

The languishing looks had departed, but not for keeps.
By my early twenties my beauty had returned, the cow
eyes and lovely mane, glorified. If any one was ever
cursed with fatal beauty it was myself. The girls
thought I was "perfectly grand!" What the men
thought would melt a linotype; so their opinions must
go unrecorded. One he-comedian sent me a comic
valentine of a male cloak model, the verse being more
unpleasant than the picture, which itself was a notable
accomplishment. If I had known then that in a few
years this godlike beauty was to be worth a thousand
a week, I think I could have borne all the comic valen-
tines with exasperating nonchalance.

Only to-day I saw my picture in the window of a lead-
ing haberdasher. In it I am wearing one of a dozen
sport shirts sent to me by the merchant, and a card
informs the gaping bystander that I am America's
Greatest Film Favorite!

No doubt, cjmical reader, you have decided by now
that I am a vain, insufferable cad. Maybe I am ; maybe
not. My blessed mother has done and said everything
she could to turn my head ; but my father is Irish, and
he saw a joke when nine days old — and told it to me.
So, though the latest moving-picture beauty contest has
awarded me the palm as the handsomest male extant,
I have not allowed the victory entirely to unseat my
reason. Knowing my limitations as an actor, I shall

6 FILM FOLK

work this dear old fashionplate beauty of mine just as
long as the crowd wants me.

Now in America we worship two things, efficiency and
success ; and when one of us makes a barrel of money by
boiling soap, or hits the pay check for a thousand a
week, he runs straight off to a newspaper or magazine
to tell how he did it, so that others may emulate his
achievement. Being a good American, I, too, shall tell
my story.

It matters little who I am. The question that will
interest nine gentle readers out of ten is. How to Suc-
ceed as a Moving-Picture Actor ; and I feel that I can be
more free in making observations if I do not disclose my
identity. I propose to tell of episodes and make com-
ments on things that are true to fact, though personal-
ities may be somewhat disguised. My name is not Gran-
non, and I was not born in Syracuse; but that name
and place are close enough. John S. Grannon, however,
is not a very rococo name for a great actor; so when
I decided to become one I changed it — let us suppose
— ^to Spencer Grandon.

It is unnecessary to tell of my shameful, effeminate
youth in further detail. Added to my cherubic beauty,
a high-pitched voice seemed to justify the name "Sis"
by which I was known even through my college days;
but it was at college that I found myself, and there I
determined to become a he-man, even if I had to eat raw
meat and grow a full beard. I plunged into athletics,
and by my senior year I had won a place on the foot-
ball team and was the intercollegiate champion for the
Middle West in welterweight wrestling. Up to this
time I was answering all the hopes and aspirations of

THE FILM FAVOEITE 7

my doting parents, and in the spring would become a
bachelor of science, prepared to go forth and shed my
light before men.

However, a little thing happened that turned my
whole career in another direction. I was chosen to play
the lead in the senior comedy, the beginning of my de-
cline. From the possible heights of a consulting en-
gineer I was to fall heir to the doubtful distinction of
the most ravishing lover who ever rescued maiden fair.
Nothing but the stage would do for me.

Father received my decision with some of the quaint-
est and rarest Irish in his very rich vocabulary; but
mother — ^bless her dear old heart! — ^just knew that I
would succeed at anything ! If you do not believe I am
the greatest actor in the world just drop my mother a
line. But don't ask father!

Having chosen a career, I splashed in immediately,
went to New York, took the usual bumps, and scored
several second-rate successes. My piping voice was the
worst handicap. For four years I messed round with
one company and another in every State in the Union,
and stood about as much chance of dramatic preemi-
nence as a snowball down in Yuma. Finally I found
myself in Los Angeles without a job, and with only
sixty dollars in my pocket.

Los Angeles, as you know, is a terminal, a dramatic
jumping-ofif place, the end of many a histrionic career.
When a road company leaves New York and wends its
weary and unsympathetic way across the continent it
usually ends up in Portland, San Francisco, or Los
Angeles — and then disbands. The latter place, espe-
cially in late years, has been the finish of many a gallant

8 FILM FOLK

troupe that has tried for three thousand miles to buck
the growing competition of the moving-pictures.

THE STABBT FIRMAMENT OP LOS ANGELES

According to the story-books and songs, when a com-
pany goes broke the orthodox behavior of the hams is
to hit the ties back to New York ; but Los Angeles is not
Schenectady, and the walking across the Mojave is very
inelastic. Besides, the Rialto has moved, as I shall ex-
plain later. If a theatrical bubble bursts in Portland or
San Francisco, the worst has happened and the "artists"
wiU have to go to work; but, being willing, a good
strong man or woman can always get a job canning
apricots or salmon. In Los Angeles, however, another
hope is left, for down there, besides fish and fruit, the
canneries include the drama; in fact, this latter in-
dustry is far more important than either of the others.

It seems curious that a city in one of the nethermost
comers of the United States should have become the
moving-picture-producing center of the world. Statis-
tics are not satisfactory, but the best authorities state
that eighty per cent, of the pictures made in America
are produced thereabouts. New companies are forming
every day — ^many of them, however, surviving only the
first picture. Whenever an actor, director, or camera
man begins to feel his oats, he starts a company of his
own; but most of them go on the rocks. Notwithstand-
ing these numerous fiascoes, the solid, enduring compa-
nies are growing every day ; and, as a result, there are
more actors employed in Southern California than in
any other place in the world.

With very few exceptions all the stars of filmdom

THE FILM FAVORITE 9

reside there, and it is there that they have their organ-
izations, clubs, balls, picnics, and barbecues. In the
past few years their ranks have been filled by stage
stars, so that a benefit or ball will call together "the
greatest galaxy of headliners that ever appeared under
one roof!" Yes; the Rialto is still on Broadway, but
there is another Broadway, and it lies three thousand
miles west of Herald Square.

I have said that Los Angeles is the end of many a
dramatic career. I may add that it is also the begin-
ning. Fortunate for me it was that the Candy Kid
Company petered out in the City of the Angels; for —
who knew ! — I might soon see myself as the heroic driver
of a fire-truck that would go tearing through the streets,
upsetting news-stands and comic policemen! At any
rate, here I was, with my crofty clothes and sixty dollars,
and here were the studios of some twenty companies.
I bought an m.-p. magazine and sat up all one night in
my room at the hotel making out an itinerary, so that
on the morrow I might hie me forth to land a job.

It was not an encouraging beginning, for on the next
day I visited three of the larger studios and the numer-
ous friends I met all told the same tale of overcrowded
companies, with thousands of applicants. Introductions
seemed to help little; so I determined, as long as my
money lasted, to take my chances with the "bunch in
the yard." After a week's pilgrimage I picked out the
most likely-looking company and settled down to
wait.

These Western studios are vastly different from those
still remaining in the East. The one I chose. The
Climax, was typical of the best. It was a great eighty-

10 FILM FOLK

acre tract near town; but within its high walls were
hUls, wooded barrancos, a brook, and a small lake— all
of which made possible many beautiful outside locations.
The interior sets were arranged on a great platform three
hundred feet long by one hundred deep. These stages
are without any covering whatsoever, except the sliding
muslin diffusers that are drawn over to soften the sun-
light.

It is the "yard," however, which one first encounters;
and the waiting-rooms of the New York managers pre-
sent no such picture. As early as eight o'clock in the
morning the place is thronged with the most amaiiing
aggregation of humans within whom ever burned the
light of hope. What is there about the moving-pictures
that attracts so many of them ? They could earn a much
better living picking lemons; so one almost wonders
whether it is not the call of the ego that is the drawing
force. Long benches are crowded with cow-boys, shop-
girls, precocious children with admiring parents, plumb-
ers, has-been actors, high-school girls, callow, cigaretty
youths. Chinamen, negroes, and Mexicans. All sorts
and conditions of men, women, and children are sunning
themselves in the open and, for the most part, reading
moving-picture magazines.

As the assistant directors — they choose the "extra"
members of the cast — make their daily tour of the yard,
scanning the benches for types that wiU best suit their
needs, the hope that burns in the eager faces of the dra-
matic candidates is one of almost ecstatic expectation.
The qualifications for a job are often astounding.
"Does any man here know how to handle a rattlesnake?
Which of you can ride an ostrich?" calls out a director.

THE FILM FAVORITE 11

A burly chap who sat beside me for a week finally got
a job because of his expert knowledge of explosives.

TRENCH FIGHTING IN A TWO WEEKS ' BATTLE

As I loafed there day after day, trying to catch up in
my reading, I had time to contemplate many of life's
vanities. What humiliation was this for a real artist!
From the "legit" to the movie what a fall! Where
were my dreams of yesteryear? The fall, however, was
somewhat softened by the knowledge that the pay checks
were twice the size of those of regular actors.

For almost two weeks I hung round the yard, refusing,
because of my pride, to go on with two or three hundred
others in "mob stuff," even though the job might pay
me five dollars a day ! But my pride began to peter out
as my sixty continued to shrink, and one day I said to
myself: "Well, Mother, here goes your dear, beautiful
little Spencer boy into the depths of the drama ! ' '

Talk about beginning at the bottom! I started in a
ditch. I was one of forty who were shot up in a Civil
War story, and I lay in a ditch all morning while regi-
ment after regiment passed over my beautiful, prostrate
hulk. Crowded in that bunch of forty humans, I was
thankful that cameras had no ears to hear; for such
language as came gurgling to the surface beat any suffo-
cating gases the Germans have yet invented. Those on
top certainly learned some new ones from those at the
bottom.

Yet most of these fellows boast of this indignity and
will make a story of real dramatic triumph out of it.
One of these very soiled individuals, who, no doubt,
would have made a sincere gas-fitter, told me how he had

12 FILM FOLK

worked with Henry "Whitnall in The Cataclysm. When
I asked what part he had played, he replied: "I was
one of them niggers in the road, with m' throat cut;
but in th' third reel I was in two swell close-ups."

My trench fighting was indirectly very fruitful, for
these battle scenes lasted two weeks. "When I was not
violently shooting a gun or impersonating a corpse in
blue or gray, I utilized my leisure in wandering about
the lot and watching the other companies at work. At
this time eight stories were being enacted at the studio,
with six companies in the mountains and at the beaches.
I might add that the place had a complete menagerie
and specialized on animal pictures.

There was a time when it was possible to fake the
"animal stuff"; but that was before the film fans be-
came oversophisticated. The skeptical habitues of the
film drama may not believe it, but the animal pictures
are now being made "straight."" My attention was
called to this fact by the elaborate precautions taken
in preparing a scene in which it was evident that the
action would be of great danger to the actors. The
story was a South African romance, and the Boer's
daughter, played by Gene "Wilkinson, a handsome and
fearless girl, was scheduled to do a scene with an un-
broken puma. I think the action can be pictured more
graphically by a diagram of the set:

It will be noticed in the diagram that a high, stout,
wire fence, inclosing a clump of trees and an open space,
funnels down to a point where three cameras are lo-
cated. The trees and bamboo entirely screen the fence
from view, so that the illusion is that of the interior
of a jungle.

■;'.r/
.■■'.■'J'J*1

CMMtk MM

Birit't'jcra View of a Jangle Picture

13

14 FILM FOLK

In the scene Miss Wilkinson comes wearily staggering
across the clearing and falls from fatigue on the spot
indicated in the diagram. The location must be exact,
because the action takes place within the angle of the
camera and yet just at the edge of the picture. Then,
as the girl rises on one elbow, she is horrified to see
bounding straight toward her a great gray mountain-
lion. She raises her knife to strike; but just as the
animal reaches her the picture is cut. When it is cut
in again one sees the apparently dead beast, and Miss
Wilkinson, much torn and lacerated, leaning over it.

CHALLENGING A WILD PUMA

What really happened was this: Just outside the
camera line stood one of the keepers with a freshly killed
chicken in his hand. The puma smelled this and came
bounding across the corral ; but, in order to get his game,
he passed directly over Miss Wilkinson's head. Scenes
like this, as one may guess, have no rehearsals — ^with
the animal; so three or four cameras are always used
to obviate the necessity of a make-over. One must not
think that such an act is perfectly safe, as there Is al-
ways danger in performing with the "cats." In many
scenes it is absolutely necessary to use unbroken animals ;
for when a lion, tiger, or puma has been broken he is
afraid of his keepers, and is likely to skulk in the corral
and refuse to do the expected stunts.

This picture gave me an idea, and I knew if I could
pull it off I should land big with the company. During
the next few days I talked often with the animal keeper
and made careful observations of the cats. I had de-
termined to make an offer to the director of the animal

THE FILM FAVORITE 15

stuff to go on and fight it out with puma in front of the
camera. From what the keeper told me, and with my
knowledge of football tackling and wrestling, I decided
that I could clinch with and hold one of these brutes
with little danger to myself.

The director listened to my plans dubiously, but with
much interest, and told me he would give me an answer
later. The next day, however, he came to me with a
telegram in his hand, and said that if I would sign a
release for damages against the company, and provided
we should get twenty-five feet of good film, he stood
ready to pay me a thousand dollars.

I sent for my football clothes and had them reinforced
in the abdomen and on the back. I intended to wear
them underneath my costume. The keeper had prom-
ised to clip the beast's claws just enough to blunt the
extreme sharpness. With these precautions I was to
take my chances. The director was not particularly con-
fident of my getting the picture, as was shown by the
fact that no scenario was forthcoming; a story would
be written round the incident, he said, if I made good
on the big scene.

It is no exaggeration to say that I had the biggest gal-
lery that had ever watched a scene at the studio since
its founding. The regulars and several hundred extras
occupied every possible vantage point about the lot;
but they kept at a respectful distance, as the cats are
easily disconcerted by a crowd and, likely as not, this
one would sneak off and refuse to attack me. Armed
keepers were hidden behind shrubbery and two sharp-
shooters stood just outside the corral. A formidable-
looking doctor arranged his kit of bandages and dope.

16 FILM POLK

Most of the spectators, I believe, were hoping for the
worst. At any rate, they were fully expecting "Sister"
to get his! The only ones fully confident of success
were the keeper and myself.

Twice — three times — I rehearsed the action, in order
to time the footage of the film. At last the director
called, "Action!" and the cameras began to click off
their sixteen exposures a second. I came strolling slowly
across the clearing in front of the bamboo. Hearing the
opening of the gate in the rear of the inclosure and the
rustling of the tall grass as the puma sniffed his way
forward, I swung round. As I beheld the great, crouch-
ing beast, I was supposed to turn toward the camera
and register "horror." I did so, and the puma bounded
toward me. "When he was only ten feet away, at a
signal from the keeper I turned in my tracks ; and as he
sprang high at my head I sidestepped and clinched
from behind. Then for fully a minute there was real
excitement. They tell me they could scarcely see us at
times for the dust, and the sound of the spitting was like
a ten-cylinder motor car with the mufHer cut out.

I called out every few seconds that I was all right;
and when I thought we had gone for about a thousand
feet of film I rolled the cat outside the angle of the
camera, where the keepers pounced on him, manacled
all four feet, and dragged him away. The camera man
reported sixty feet. When it was seen that I was up
and smiling the relief of the tense situation was sounded
in rousing cheers. A slight scalp wound and one claw
scratch deep in my foot were my wounds, the cauter-
ization of the latter being the only pain I suffered.

And now the question is. How did I do it? I will

THE FILM FAVORITE 17

tell; for maybe there lives another fool who wishes to
try his skill on a tiger. But never again for me ! Not
that I have elaborate respect for the strength of a puma,
but the gods might not again be so kindly disposed.
I had in my left hand a pigeon, still warm, though dead.
As I held it aloft the beast plunged for it ; and as he did
so I fell forward with my one hundred and seventy
pounds full on his back. Bearing him tightly to the
ground, I succeeded in getting a full nelson on his
head, which put that member out of danger to me, and
I held his f orepaws straight out at right angles ; then I
scissored his loins with my legs, and in this position
we began to roll. At no time after I closed on him
was I in any great danger. The result of my success
was that I went on the pay roll as a regular, for it was
necessary I should act in all the scenes that were to come
before and after this one.

LOVELY HAIE AND COW EYES BEGIN TO SCOKE

I made only a few animal pictures after the puma
story, for it was soon discovered that I had possibilities
as a romantic hero. It turned out that I had a fine
moving-picture face; my lovely hair and my cow eyes
had at last come into their own. Neither would my voice
now be a handicap. I heard endless tales of how some
of the greatest actors in the world had failed in the
pictures, and of how many who had utterly failed in the
legitimate had become leaders in the silent drama.
One noticeable fact of the moving-pictures is that one
must act, even though he acts badly. He cannot stand
about in beautiful attitudes, uttering sonorous lines in
an organ voice, and put over the scene. It must be

18 FILM POLK

done through the eye — Whence the reversal of fortune of
many an aspirant.

Such, indeed, was my own experience. Achieving
nothing much higher than the role of a romantic Harold
in musical comedy, here I find myself in a few years
advertised as one of the highest-priced film favorites in
America! I know I am not a good actor, and I know
that the advertisement bears a fleeting sentiment ; and in
this knowledge I am almost unique among my brothers.
Many of the successful ones believe they are great art-
ists.

The picture business is so new and so big, however,
that in the first hard boiling many bubbles have risen
to the surface. I have no doubt that not a few favorites
would weigh at least two pounds less than a Panama hat.
For some of us, the most trying part of our daily routine
is the compulsory association with one another. The
kultur of some of my brothers finds expression in great
red, white, or blue, iU-mannered motor cars, some of
them as fearsome as battleships, the noise they make be-
ing a hope expressed that people will notice the occu-
pants, most of whom have their initials, eoats-of-arms,
and a few their full name, emblazoned on the door. To
certain-shaped heads it gives a glorious thrill to drive
down Broadway in a great, powerful car, a sport shirt
displaying one's beautiful throat, hair flying back in
splendid abandon, while the girls on the sidewalk utter
ecstatic, hopeless sighs.

Another trial that some of us pretend to dislike very
much is the necessity of so often appearing in public
simply to be looked at. If any charity wants tickets sold
like hot cakes, it prevails on the managers to send down

THE FILM FAVORITE 19

a film favorite to help the sale. Benefits innumerable,
fiestas, dedications, and school commencements call us
from our work or families. The managers acquiesce in
these public affairs, even to the great embarrassment of
our work, because in that way they put the societies and
institutions under obligations; and who knows but we
may some day want them to appear in a picture !

There are times when extra people can substitute for
lis with wholly satisfactory results. A short time ago
an official of a seaside resort came up to arrange for
the participation of film favorites in the annual bathing-
girl parade. This is a spectacular feature of the yearly
carnival of this Pacific Coney Island. To advertise the
moving-picture girls in the contest was to insure an
immense crowd. It was decided that one headliner
should go, and thirty or forty extra girls should be sent
to fill up the ranks. These extras can be picked up any
morning at the studio. So, for a few hundred dollars,
an attraction was put on that meant a great boost for
the trolley-road, as weU as the place that staged the
show.

This deliberate confusing of the public mind as to
the personnel of the film favorites is one of the most
exasperating angles of the profession. The newspapers
are outrageous offenders. Any poor, defective little girl
who gets into trouble is unloaded on us. "Movie Queen
Stabs Sweetheart with Can-Opener!" reads an excit-
ing tale in this morning's paper. I have never heard
of the young lady ; but what of that ? She was crowned
by the city-editor. If a girl appears once, with two thou-
sand others, in some great mob scene, she tells the re-
porters she is a moving-picture actress.

20 FILM FOLK

ALL WANT TO BE MOVIE QUEENS

Now I do not wish to pay any excessive floral tributes
to the virtues and intellectuals of the regular moving-
picture actor. His intelligence is not always so pro-
found as to excite comment, and directors are not all
weU-bred and cultured artists ; but I object to having all
the domestic muck in the village credited to my profes-
sion.

While I was reading this tragic crime of the can-
opener to Mrs. Grandon this morning at breakfast a
happy thought came to me.

"What 's the matter," I said, "with having some-
body get out a Who 's Who in Filmdom, giving a com-
plete list of companies and plays, with half-tones of the
regular players? Then, when the police round up a
burglar, we could prove that he is not a Film Favorite."

"Yes," said Mrs. Grandon; "but it might be embar-
rassing to have the burglar prove, as no doubt he could,
that he was at the head of your scenario department !"

Mrs. Grandon often says things like that.

Did you ever stop to wonder how many short brunettes
there are in your town? Or tall blondes? Or red-
headed girls with aquiline profiles? I have a plan by
which one can determine just such delightful data with-
out the trouble of plodding through voluminous census
reports or insurance statistics. Take, for example, the
red-headed girls with aquiline profiles. If I wish, I can
behold every woman in town thus endowed to-morrow
morning at nine o'clock! The result can be accom-
plished simply by inserting in the want column a line
to the effect that red-headed girls with aquiline profiles

THE FILM FAVORITE 21

are wanted at the studios. Every miss or missus who,
by a stretching of the chin or oxidizing of the hair, can
come within a mile of this description will be there on
the dot. The accuracy of the count will be based on the
statement that everybody wishes to act in the movies.
The reason for it is puzzling; the fact is indisputable.

Last week Los Angeles had a population of five hun-
dred thousand souls — and many Mexicans; and I will
say, for the benefit of the statistically curious, that out
of this vast congregation there are engaged in the moving-
picture business, in one form or another, five hundred
thousand souls — and all the Mexicans. This may seem
like an exaggeration. It is not. It is the gospel truth —
that being a truer kind of truth than the ordinary kind.
It is a rare citizen who at one time or another has not
appeared in moving-pictures. If there be those who are
not past, present, or future actors, one may rest assured
they are writing scenarios. There are actually thou-
sands of us who make acting our vocation, and of all the
remaining inhabitants it is the avocation.

There is hardly a public gathering of any kind that
is not utilized by some film company; and if, during a
G. A. R. or an Elks parade, one sees a ridiculous individ-
ual making an ass of himself, one invariably looks for a
camera. At the last Vanderbilt race at Santa Monica
visitors were horrified to see a machine, dragging some-
body behind, dash past the grand stand, while two police-
men, who rushed out and tried to stop the wild monster,
were bowled over like tenpins and rolled fifty yards down
the track in a cloud of dust.

There was a time when fire-engines suggested that
something was burning somewhere; now, however, the

22 FILM FOLK

commotion may be nothing more than a ladder-wagon
headed for an actress lying flat on her ample tummy in
the middle of Main Street.

After seeing some Charlie Chaplin drive a jitney into
a hearse, scattering the dear departed all over the Plaza,
one finally becomes suspicious — even of a funeral. An
open patrol-wagon, full of fierce and piratical police,
may go tearing through the heart of the town; but the
sophisticated villagers on the sidewalk pay them only
the bored attention of fellow artists. It is the tourists
who stop to rubber. There are no studios in Keokuk ; so
all this excitement is very interesting to the outlander.

There is hardly a building, public or private, in the
city that has not been used as a location in a picture.
Occasionally the location hunter gets permission, but
oftener we go and take the picture and explain afterward
— if explanations seem necessary. If we run into a land-
lord who lacks local patriotism, and he makes a disagree-
able scene, the director may manage to have him pull it
off in front of the camera, and thereby get twenty or
thirty feet of good "quarrel stuff."

In one of my first pictures we were doing a scene in a
beautiful place in Pasadena, and the owner of the estate
arrived just in time to see twenty or thirty nuns coming
out of his front entrance. Looking about the grounds
he beheld brown-frocked and sandaled monks going about
their labors or saying their beads in the shade of a high,
brick wall that inclosed the place. It was the first time
he had realized what a fine old cloistral effect his archi-
tect had achieved. The butler had given us permission
to use the location during the absence of the owner, whose
premature arrival did not, however, bring censure to

THE FILM FAVORITE 23

Jorkins. Later the whole place was put at our disposal.

Recently one of our directors came to the studio beam-
ing with delight because he had secured the services of a
church congregation to pose for a camp-meeting scene.
Five hundred dollars for The Cause had done the deed.

One day the city was placarded by huge bills adver-
tising a bullfight at the Stadium. Mexico's most famous
matador was to appear. Thousands journeyed to the
great amphitheater — only to find that they were to act
as a background for one of America's greatest singers,
who was appearing in a seven-reel production of Carmen.
Enough extra people in Spanish costume were employed
to furnish the "crowd" for the close-up stuff. In the
big pictures this detail of costume is not necessary, for
only the immensity of the multitude is noticed.

If one goes home some afternoon and finds an ambu-
lance or a motor cop outside the door, he instinctively
looks for the camera. It usually emerges from a group
of little boys.

A CALIFORNIA COSMOPOLIS

In Hollywood and Santa Monica, where so many of the
studios are located, the inhabitants have ceased to marvel
at anything. To come from behind their hedgerows
and run slam up against one of Rome 's legions is to them
no more surprising than to look up suddenly into the
immense face of an elephant. Automobiles full of Zulus,
Arabs, and Cossacks race through the town unnoticed.
An Egyptian princess, sitting on a high stool and encom-
passing a nut sundae, might create a sensation in an
Eastern drug-store; not so in this country. It is all
part of the workday life of the place.

24 FILM FOLK

The astonishing number of floral and electrical
parades, fiestas, and pageants only adds to the sophistica-
tion of the villagers and the bewilderment of the tourists.
Nothing in the way of weird costume or outrageous
make-up seems incongruous in this carnival city. With
my face loaded with grease paint, I have sat many times
at luncheon in a downtown restaurant and attracted only
passing interest. Some waiter occasionally gives me the
high sign of our tribe, for the chances are even that he
himself is a past m.-p. performer.

There is a cafeteria near our studio that is patronized
almost exclusively by moving-picture folk in all their
stage feathers. It is the most cosmopolitan restaurant
in the world; for at any time one may find every race
and type extant rubbing elbows and eating chili beans
in perfect harmony of spirit — if not of raiment.

Stagecoaches still go tearing through the hills and
over the mountains as they did in '49 ; but the passen-
gers they carry are the heroes and heroines of our mimic
world. It is not a comic-paper joke that occasionally
some stranger, usually an Englishman, who runs on some
scene of Western daring while touring the country, will
straightway speed madly to the next town in great excite-
ment to report the hold-up of a stage. There is always
some kind-hearted person who will lead him aside and
explain the ribald laughter of the sheriff's office.

The reason the greatest rodeos of the country are now
held in Los Angeles is because aU the best cowboy riders
and ropers in the West are performing here, with one
company or another. Besides working in the Western
stuff, they perform in all pictures where dangerous riding
is necessary; and there is always somebody to double

THE FILM FAVORITE 25

with the hero when the latter must make some wonderful
escape or rescue. By cutting in and out, the deception
is easily arranged.

I have a chap named Curly who doubles with me ; he
is about my build, and we have costumes made exactly
alike. I can get away with the ordinary riding stuff;
but when the part necessitates a hard fall or any rough
riding I gladly turn that feat over to a professional,
who knows how to take his bumps. In these scenes the
double is careful to keep his face turned from the
camera; but the speed of the action alone is sufficient to
conceal the substitution.

There are some pictures made on the plains and in the
hills that are really worth a long journey to witness;
these are the great battle scenes, ancient and modem.
Some of them involve thousands of men and horses, and
are enacted over miles of country. It seems too bad that
the magnificence of these spectacles is witnessed by so
few. The film picture can never be so stirring as the
actual scene, yet often a handful of men are the only
spectators.

By linking up with a showman, the moving-picture
director can pull off the big stuff at very little cost. It
is a beautiful scheme; the extra people, instead of re-
ceiving five dollars a day, flock to the beach by thousands,
thus paying for the film through the railroad companies
and at the same time acting the mob stuff for nothing.
Besides this, fifty or a hundred thousand people alertly
await the release of the great war stories in which they
figure so inconspicuously.

In Shakespeare's time poor old Thespis was in much
disrepute and the players were compelled to stay outside

26 FILM POLK

the walls of London ; but, alas, how the wheel has turned
up m some three hundred years ! Now everybody within
the walls has become an actor and a city is the stage. I
should qualify that statement by saying that four hun-
dred thousand are actors and two hundred thousand are
writing scenarios — the city has grown one hundred
thousand since I wrote the first paragraph !

CINEMASIPBIiAS

Why do we all wish to act? I have never seen any-
one refuse, and most people are quite honestly excited
about appearing in the pictures. Even great and mod-
est public men succumb, with only very faint struggles.

It is a curious sort of egotism ; the only actors who do
not have it are little children. That is why children
usually do so well. The most egotistic among us are
those who wish their faces to loom largest ; we call them
by the indelicate name of camera hogs. Some there are
whose artistry is stronger than their egotism, yet they
are often compelled to hog the picture by their directors.
These latter are the men who lay more emphasis on the
film favorite than on the play.

I learned later, however, that there were other reasons
why the professional actor succumbs to the lure of the
moving-picture. When one thinks of the nervous, helter-
skelter life of the average American actor, a normal
working life makes a tremendous appeal. Instead of
touring the country in stuffy cars and living at second-
rate hotels, he can now have a home. Many of us, in-
deed, have beautiful places. Our jobs are fairly perma-
nent, if not with one company, at least in the same city.

THE FILM FAVORITE 27

I know many fellows who have been with one studio for
seven or eight years.

Also, in the moving-pictures we can work for fifty-
two weeks a year, instead of thirty or forty. There are
days — ^because of the weather or for other reasons — when
we do not work, yet our salaries go right on; but, best
of all, we control our own evenings and can enjoy the
same social life as other professional people. That is
why our clubs and balls are such great successes; we
can all go if we wish.

Another strong factor in this life that makes it more
interesting than the grind of the legitimate stage is the
fact that we do not work monotonously in one part dur-
ing an entire season. There is constant change, and our
work is ever new. The variety of the scenes takes us
from the mountains to the sea, all over this glorious coun-
try — ^to the Yosemite, Catalina, Mexico — every place of
picture possibilities and interest. It is one grand adven-
ture. One week I am playing polo in Pasadena, in a
society play; the next I am sailing the Channel in a
Fisherman story.

Then there is the great joy of the first night. The
moving-picture magazines publish lists of releases for
the coming week ; and if one of our pictures is scheduled
for a local theater, the whole company flocks down to
see itself. "We attend our own performances and become
our own critics. And such criticisms! To hear the
roasting and the joshing of the action and the actors as
the story develops! The ordinary dramatic critic is
charitable in comparison to the self-criticism of actors.

Unfortunately, or fortunately for me, Mrs. Grandon

28 FILM FOLK

is one of those purposeful girls who refuses to be tre-
mendously impressed by our work. She always accom-
panies me to our premieres, but sometimes /smiles
throughout the loftiest heights of my dramatic effort.
This morning I read a newspaper story to her that com-
mented fulsomely on the latest triumph of a woman star,
and laid perhaps too much emphasis on the size of the
young lady's salary.

"I do not wish to be unkind, Spencer; but the fact is,
I am vastly more interested in the minimum wage of
shopgirls than in the maximum wage of moving-picture
queens," said she.

Mrs. Grandon is one of the girls who worked her way
through college.

THE HEBO WORSHIP OF THE PUBLIC

"Movie Actress Eats Thirty Ice-Cream Cones a Day!"
announces a headline across three columns on the first
page, second section. The city-editor believes the story
to be worth three columns — and city-editors are wise in
knowing what their readers want.

It is a strange quirk in human nature that makes
everybody want to know the most intimate details in the
lives of public persons. John Smith may be as eccentric
as he pleases, and nobody cares; but be it learned that
General von Hindenburg eats gasoline on his breakfast-
food, and the whole world is agog ! The success of such
magazines as London Answers, which deals largely in
intimate gossip of royalty, and the immense circulation
of some of our moving-picture monthlies, which play up
portraits and the personal note, are based on this com-
mon human weakness — if weakness it be.

THE FILM FAVORITE 29

Actors, especially, have always been targets for the
curious. Everything they say, do, or think is regarded
as worthy of large headlines. If the stage actor numbers
his admirers by the thousand, one can imagine what hap-
pens to the film favorite whose devotees are counted by
the million. Our mail is positively overwhelming, and
it comes from all over the civilized world. Australian
girls seem quite as mad over our excessive beauty as their
American sisters.

I have often asked myself why the public is so inordi-
nately interested in our careers. I am sure many
of us are much less exciting than bankers and wine-
merchants. In contrast with the legitimate actor we
are as prosaic in our homes as plumbers or preachers.
We have our bungalows, garages, and gardens.
One of my friends goes in for rabbits; another for
roses; two have orange ranches; and several are buy-
ing desert lands.

If these disclosures disillusion our distant soulmates, I
doubt that they will affect in the least the aspirant who
wishes to act, for probably he is positive that the light
hid beneath his bushel will make other stars look like
burned-out moons. Many of the letters we receive, with
superlatively mushy appreciation of our excessive talents,
are but bouquets to lure us into a mood of ecstatic recep-
tivity. Often a thinly veiled hint suggests that the
writer herself would not sidestep an invitation to grace
the moving-picture state. These hints are usually ac-
companied by photographs of the aspirants; and I will
say I never before knew there were so many charming
young girls in the world. Sometimes the parents take a
hand, to tell of Mamie's amazing mimicry, and not a

30 FILM FOLK

few letters are accompanied by tempting financial offers
to assist in placing Mamie before the world.

No actor who is working has time to reply to all this
epistolary junk, but in my case Mrs. Grandon answers
whatever she believes worthy; she also signs all the
albums and photographs. Most of us actors pretend to
be bored with our mail ; but, to be frank, I find it quite
exciting, and, even though I see the joke, I am afraid I
sometimes look very pleased with myself when I am flat-
tered.
Mrs. Grandon says: "All actors are alike."
The writing of these letters by romantic school girls
has a tragic side, however. If the recipient happens to
be a cad, — and I regret to say that occasionally he is, —
his replies are not always a safe guide to the young girl.
The relationship hinted at here has become a problem for
some of the larger studios ; but it has been solved, in a
measure, by the employment of a studio mother.

THE MAGIC CARPET

At nine o'clock in the morning the lot presents a won-
derful spectacle. It has all the movement, costume, and
color of a great carnival city. On the huge open-air
stage the carpenters are at work putting together the
various sets for interior stuff; perhaps as many as six-
teen different scenes will be acted here simultaneously.
A great winding staircase for a society play will stand
next to a sordid attic for Maggie of the tenements. A
Japanese tea-house, a library, a harem, and a ship's
cabin — set on rockers to give the pitch of the sea — will
be placed so close together that there is apparently no
line of demarcation.

THE FILM PAVOEITE 31

This arrangement is possible because the moving-
picture camera cuts a very small angle. The close-up
stuff requires only about twelve feet of stage — an almost
prohibitive embarrassment to the dancers — and a deep
set rarely needs more than thirty feet. So it is possible
to place seven or eight sets on a hundred-foot stage.

To the uninitiated the scene is one of utter bewilder-
ment — like a great fete without the bands and confetti.
Society people in ball gowns and evening dress move
about in the fierce white light of day; a group of cow-
boys may be seen over in the clearing, practicing with
their ropes; and 'way off yonder is a street in Cairo,
already thronged with the bright-costumed figures of the
Egyptians.

The yard is jammed with perhaps three hundred
people, all hoping to be taken on as extras, while among
them pass the various assistant directors, making their
choices. One director wants the ten tallest men,
another the five shortest ; one wishes an old, gray-haired
woman, another a man who can shoe a horse. Their de-
mands range from the sublime to the ridiculous, from an
infant in arias to an army of infantry.

Outside on the street a hundred automobiles are drawn
up, waiting to take different casts out on location. Sev-
eral great sight-seeing busses are filled with German
soldiers, headed for an outside scene of Old Heidelberg;
motor trucks are loading saddles and rifles, to be used by
the thousand horsemen waiting in the Santa Monica foot-
hills to perform in one of the great war dramas.

By ten o'clock the place is in full blast; the actors on
location are gone, and most of the hopeful aspirants in
the yard either have been taken on or have dispersed

32 FILM FOLK

until the morrow. Always, however, there are at least a
hundred who hang about, hoping to be selected in some
emergency.

On the big stage, where so many scenes are being en-
acted, bedlam reigns. The shouting of the actors and
directors is punctuated by gunfire in some wild drama
or rough comedy, and stage carpenters and scene shifters
add to the din with the necessary noises of their craft.
While waiting for the director to satisfy his esthetic soul
regarding draperies and props, or until the camera man
has tuned up, actors are wandering from one set to
another, smoking, chewing gum, or fox-trotting down the
aisles. To see a savage pirate doing the lame duck with
a society queen does not seem incongruous in this great
human omelet.

ACTING FOR THE FIVE MILLIONS

EfSciency experts are horrified at the apparent waste
of time in these enormous plants; hundreds of players
seem to be always loafing. It may take a whole morning
to produce a certain scene, yet the actual time before the
camera may occupy but a brief ten minutes. Meantime
the cast must be always within call. No plan has yet
been devised by which this leisure can be utilized. All
sorts of schemes, from splitting wood to splicing film,
have been suggested; but none seems practicable.

The question arises : How can the actor do intelligent
work in such an atmosphere ? In addition to the awful
confusion of noises and movement, there is not even the
stimulus of an audience. When I was elevated to the
rank of leading man this latter condition worried me : it

THE FILM FAVORITE 33

was like talking to oneself. I felt constrained and self-
conscious. One day Stanley Barryworth, one of our
best men, passed by and, sensing my embarrassment,
said: "Grandon, there are five million people looking
at you through that camera." The psychological reac-
tion on me was magical. I had an audience, but had
never before realized it !

The noise and confusion, however, were still so dis-
concerting that I finally demanded that all my scenes
should be inclosed. This was easily accomplished by
buUding a canvas waU, with siK-foot flats, entirely round
the set, running down to a V, where the director and
camera man took their places. Most of the leading men
now demand either a separate stage or an inclosed set.

An astonishing number of actors have absolutely no
interest in other than their own performances, and
turkey-trot or horseplay while the performer tries to
concentrate on a serious bit of interpretative work.
One would think that the second- and third-rate actors
would be interested in the technic of a man like Barry-
worth, for instance, since he is one of the most finished
actors in America — a man of fine intelligence and deep
understanding, who has brought, besides his brains, a
fine artistry to his work. Do you think any of those
poor, light-minded lads would condescend to watch his
technic in order to learn something? Oh, dear, no!
They wait until they see the picture on the screen and
then tell how it should have been done.

Then, too, think of a man who hopes to make good in
the movies sitting on his shoulder blades and reading a
moving-picture magazine with the bunch in the yard.

34 FILM FOLK

while he might be watching one of Whitnall's biggest
scenes! Harry Whitnall is not so versatile as Barry-
worth, but we all regard him as the greatest actor in
our profession. He is an artist to the tips of his eloquent
fingers, one who says more by doing less than any other
man alive. I saw him acting a short, two-reel story of
Turgenieff's last week, whUe four would-be leading men
played dominoes within twenty feet of the scene. Then
people wonder why there are so few Whitnalls!

There is one type of actor who is sometimes employed,
not at all because of his histrionic ability, but solely
because he can do certain things that require great
strength, agility, or daring. Some of the best rough-
riders, who have learned to make spectacular falls from
a horse going at full speed, are in constant demand. Oc-
casionally one of those fellows develops real acting abil-
ity. One of the greatest impresarios in the motion-
picture world to-day was a plain cow-puncher only a
few years ago ; and when a good actor can do dangerous
work he is sure to land among the leaders.

Even the rank and file, however, are sometimes sub-
jected to a certain amount of rough work. Two years
ago three of our leading women were in the hospital at
the same time. One broke her ankle in a fire scene;
one had her leg fractured when a hors^ fell on her in a
riding scene ; and one was badly scratched while playing
with the cats in an East India jungle story. Some of
these girls and men are absolutely fearless and will do
anything the director asks, from swimming a rapids in
the high Sierras to jumping off an automobile going fifty
miles an hour.

THE FILM FAVORITE 35

TRICK FILMS GIVE PLACE TO THE EEAL THING

It will be observed that the producers are novF reaping
a harvest of incredulity on the part of their audiences
which is of their own making. For years they fooled the
fans with all sorts of ingenious mechanical tricks — as
soon as one trick was discovered another was invented —
until the spectators became inured to all devices and will
not now believe a picture, even when it is sincerely made.
So sophisticated have they become that they are positive
these feats of daring are the result of some film manipu-
lation. If they only knew some of the bumps and bruises
the actors get, they would have a higher respect for their
courage.

In one picture, made a few years ago, Barryworth, at
that time our leading man, was playing opposite Tom
Sentous, the villain, in a German dueling scene. Tom is
a great, big, handsome god, as modest as he is courage-
ous; and because of his willingness and ability to take
punishment, he was invariably cast for the villain. No
fellow in all filmdom has been so hissed in the nickel-
odeons as has Tom ; yet he is one of the finest men in the
profession.

In this story it was necessary for Barryworth to cut
Sentous across the face with his sword. The scene was
rehearsed time and again, but always the action looked
faked, because of the necessity of soft-pedaling such a
blow. Even by using the flat of the sword, the blow was
too gentle to convince. Finally the director lighted a
cigarette and went out. When he came back he said :

' ' Tom, for the sake of the picture will you take a good

36 FILM FOLK

wallop? I '11 put three cameras on, and if we fail, I
promise you there will be no re-take. ' '

"Certainly, I 'm willing," said Tom, briefly.

"When everything was ready and the duelists had been
fencing rather gingerly for perhaps half a minute, the
director called out : ' ' Now ! ' ' Barryworth swung round
with a full-arm blow with the flat of his sword that
would have felled an ox. Tom had a gob of grease paint
in his left hand to smear on his face, in order to give the
effect of an open wound ; but there was little need of it,
for the sword raised a welt on his neck and cheek that
could be seen a block.

In one of the great feature films of last year Sentous
appeared in a figlit scene that stands among moving-
picture men as the most realistic ever enacted. I hap-
pened to be present the day the picture was made; and,
having heard the principals discussing it the previous
evening and knowing that they had determined to strike
no fake blows, I was eager to see the action. It was the
finest exhibition of brute courage I have ever witnessed.
For two men, both as powerful as Jeffries, to stand up
and slam into each other with fists and chairs was a shock-
ing thing, unless one knew that they were the best of
friends and were doing it "for the sake of the picture."
They both suffered excruciating pain during the scene
and afterward, and Tom's arm, due to the strain of the
hammer lock, was quite useless for days. It was a pic-
ture of the utmost brutality; and when it was shown,
though it had the spectators sitting on the edge of their
chairs, I have no doubt the greater number of them be-
lieved the violently cruel blows to be simply good acting.

The girls are not often asked to take punishment, but

THE FILM FAVOKITE 37

they must do many things that require a high degree of
courage. As examples of this, I wish to pay my dis-
tinguished respects to two young ladies who have per-
formed some feats of daring that surpass anything the
men have done. Both were episodes in the animal stuff.

In one picture the director was anxious to show a girl
pursued by a lion, beating it to the door of a log cabin
by just a hairbreadth. To do this it was necessary to
have the girl and the lion arrive almost simultaneously.
Beatrice Hunter, one of the youngest members of the
company, was chosen for the unenviable role. She is a
wisp of a girl, but has no end of nerve ; and because of
her light weight and agility, she has been in many scenes
that required athletic skill. Only the week before she
had allowed herself to be carried down scaling ladders
from the top of a seven-story building that was actually
on fire.

In this burning-building scene Beatrice was rescued
from her bedroom in an unconscious condition, and was
hung over the fireman's shoulder like a sack of meal
while he brought her to the ground. She was dreadfully
frightened, she said, when she first went over the edge,
but gained courage during the perilous descent. No one
doubted that the choice of Beatrice for the lion picture
was a good one. ,,

In order to film the scene correctly it was necessary
to time the speed of Beatrice and the lion with deadly
precision, so that the finish of the race would picture
the lion almost upon the girl as she entered the cabin.
This split-second timing was accomplished by an in-
genious arrangement of woven-wire fencing, which per-
mitted many rehearsals of the actual race. High wire

38 FILM FOLK

division, bisecting the corral and leading to the door of
the cabin, was erected. On each side of this fence the
lion and the girl were released at the same instant, but
at different distances ; and the time of each, running at
top speed, was thus ascertained.

For the actual picture the fence was removed. Every
other possible precaution was taken against a misadven-
ture. Spiked running-shoes and a short-skirt insured
the girl's footing and the freedom of her legs. To fur-
ther guard her life, in case the lion should seem to be
overtaking her, four cowboys, who could shoot the
cigarette out of one's mouth, were stationed outside the
corral.

It is needless to say that the company did not wish to
lose the girl ; neither did it wish to lose a five-thousand-
dollar lion. As the four cowboys might differ in their
definition of danger, it was left to the director to give
the signal to shoot — if shooting was necessary — for on
him rested the responsibility for the picture, responsibil-
ity which included the lives of Beauty and the Beast

BEATRICE hunter's RACE FOR LIFE

Everybody thought that Beatrice would be equal to
her task, for she had never failed; and if she was the
least bit nervous, she concealed it most amazingly. How-
ever, as a sporting proposition, it stirred up the whole
studio. Every other company on the lot stopped to wit-
ness the race.

When everything was in readiness Beatrice stood like
an athlete on her mark, while the big lion was restlessly
pawing at the gate some twenty yards behind. The
cameras were arranged to pick up only the last ten yards

THE FILM FAVORITE 39

of the race. The director occupied a place just outside
the corral, where he could direct the cowboys. The
falling of his upraised hand was to be the signal to shoot.

At the call of "Action!" the cameras began, the lion
was released, and Beatrice started. On she came like a
deer, the lion gaining rapidly. She tripped a little bit,
but did not lose her stride. The hesitation, slight as it
was, frightened her, however, and her fear showed un-
mistakably in her eyes as she glanced back over her
shoulder.

"Don't look back, Beatrice, but beat it now for all you
are worth ! ' ' cried the director.

She fairly flew ; but so did the lion, and it seemed for a
moment as though he would overtake her. "When she
reached the cabin door she was not two feet ahead of
him, and it was only with the greatest speed and skill
that the door was closed after she plunged into the
cabin. .This detail had been rehearsed many times. The
man who slammed the door and the other who threw
the bolt both felt responsibility for the girl — and inci-
dentally for their own safety.

The impact of the lion on the great, heavy door would
have wrecked the set had it not been heavily reinforced ;
but it held firmly and the beast was thrown almost on his
back. He was in a towering rage when he got to his
feet; and he stood there roaring and snarling magnifi-
cently for fully fifty feet of film.

As I looked at the little girl, pale and trembling,
lying in her sister's arms, the thought occurred to me
that the heroism displayed in making the film was much
more splendid than the rather pompous heroian she
would simulate in her part of the story.

40 FILM FOLK

The other episode exhibits the quick wit and fine cour-
age of another young woman. It happened in the first
animal picture in which Gene Wilkinson appeared, and
it began a series of pictures that ultimately made her
famous. The scene was set in a manner similar to the
others I have described, but in the action there would
not be the slightest danger so long as the lion adhered to
his role. That role was to stay half hidden behind the
bamboo in the rear of the inclosure, while Miss Wilkin-
son walked slowly across the foreground. As ia the
other cases, there were emergency exits and sharpshoot-
ers to insure her safety.

Twice the action was rehearsed and the time taken, the
lion skulking in the jungle beyond ; but when the director
called "Action!" the clicking of the cameras in some
mysterious way stirred the king of beasts into great
indignation. He let out a roar that could be heard a
mile, lashed his tail against the bamboo, and suddenly
bounded straight toward Miss Wilkinson.

"Beat it. Gene!" shouted the directer, holding open
the nearest emergency exit. She started, but, seeing
she could not make it, turned on her heel; and, to the
amazement and horror of everybody, she ran straight
toward the lion. When he saw her turn he came to a
full stop. The meeting was something of a melodramatic
anti-climax, for the beast did not swallow the maid. On
the contrary, her spiritual conquest expressed itself by
her scratching him on the forehead. He walked out of
the picture in dignified humility.

It is easy enough to explain that the animal trainer
had coached Miss Wilkinson in the etiquette of animals
— especially the cats — and had told her how to bluff her

THE FILM FAVORITE 41

way out when she got in a tight pinch, but the point is,
though knowing exactly what one ought to do in such
a crisis, how many are there who would deliberately turn
and charge a lion?

THE COST IN BUMPS AND BRUISES

I might continue telling of the exciting and perilous
adventures incident to the lives of moving-picture folk;
but the foregoing fairly typify the dangers of the rough
stuff and show the efforts being made by producers to
meet a gigantic problem and win the faith of a suspicious
public without the aid of trickery.

One more episode I must record, however, for the
remark of the hero in the crisis of his danger voices the
exasperation that all actors feel when, after doing a
notable feat of daring, the moving-picture patrons be-
lieve the picture to be faked. The incident occurred on
a trip to one of the nethermost islands off the coast of
California. "We were doing the Treasure Island kind of
stuff and had selected a perfect location. Nothing
could have been more wild and windswept. There were
great caves that sheltered strange birds during the big
storms; high, precipitous cliffs, and long stretches of
beach on which was thrown the wreckage of lost sailing
vessels. The only inhabitants were wild boars and a
curious fox.

We made no end of bully pirate pictures, and a wild-
man story that nearly ended in disaster. Tom Sentous
was cast for the wild man, no one else being physically
eligible. Tom appeared in scene after scene, pursued by
English sailors, and finally was overtaken on the top of
a cliff overlooking the ocean. A hand-to-hand combat

42 FILM FOLK

with an English lieutenant ensued, and they rolled over
and over among the lava rocks until Tom's body was
scratched and bleeding from head to foot. Finally Tom
was thrown off the cliff and went hurtling down some
fifty feet into the water.

We had waited several days until the sea should be
calm enough to make the picture, for it was necessary
to have assistance close by, in order to rescue Tom from
the rocks. A dive was out of the question — no one
pitched off a cliff would start in a diving position; so
Tom had to go any old way and take his chances. He
did; and they turned out to be very precarious, for the
poor fellow hit the water with such an impact that he
was utterly stunned. It was such a long time before he
came to the surface that we grew mightily alarmed ; and
when he rose it was seen that he was in great distress.
There was much blood on the water, but that was only
from his lacerated body; his real trouble was more
serious.

"With much difficulty we got him into the boat, for he
weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. For several
hours we rubbed him and applied restoratives. When
finally he came round, and was able to talk, his first
remark, uttered faintly and with much effort, was :

"I will kill the first flat-chested film fan who says this
picture was faked!"

Then and there we all swore to the same murderous
intent !

EXPRESSING THE FESTAL SPIRIT

"Register joy there, Grandon! This is not an under-
takers' convention; it 's a house party."

THE FILM FAVOKITE 43

And so I jumped up and down, clapped my hands in
childish glee, and ended by dragging all the dinner
guests into the middle of the room, where we played ring
around a rosy!

That was what Condon, my first director, considered a
fine expression of the festal spirit. He and his cult
believed that the moving-picture demanded action, and
that any repose whatsoever was just so much waste of
film. How we used to prance and tear through the
tumultuous scenes ! Life in those days was full of riot
and abandon. "Action, action, action — more action!"
All the time ! We were even taught to enter a room with
terrific ostentation, and the simplest questions could not
be answered without violent gesticulations and facial
acrobatics.

Besides his insistence that life should be interpreted
in the most dynamic way possible, this director had many
weird and peculiar obsessions regarding its symbols.
For instance, he firmly believed that only a few intellec-
tuals knew the meaning of the mystic letters M.D. He
was positive that a shingle on which was inscribed
"George Smith, M.D.," would forever remain a dark
and cryptic puzzle to the average man. No doubt
he saved millions of his spectators from splitting head-
aches by solving their puzzle on a sign three feet
long, which read: "Doctor Smith." "With such a
label, one might feel sure that the pale-faced maiden
staggering up the front steps was not seeking a piano
tuner.

Some of his conceptions were perfectly magnificent.
So contemptuous was he of average intelligence that he
labeled everything possible, even the dignified city hall

44 FILM FOLK

being unable to proclaim itself without the exaggerated
assistance of a sign writer.

It was not only in scenery and props that his amaz-
ing talent for leaving' nothing to the imagination ex-
pressed itself. It was also evident in the invention of a
whole new technic of acting; and under his direction a
brand-new drama has been evolved. Take, for example,
the registration of sudden poverty. On the stage they
do it by dramatically hissing, "I am ruined!" but, ia
lieu of the spoken word, he told his actors to simply turn
their pockets inside out — a most eloquent gesture and
one universally understood.

The cinematograph is essentially a mechanical device,
and during its development into an instrument of pre-
cision mostly enlisted in its service mechanical men. It
was natural, therefore, that its first triumphs were of a
mechanical nature.

A few years ago our best pictures were the phantasms.
The dissolve, the double exposure, the reversed film —
every mechanical stunt imaginable was used to bewilder
and entertain.

Along with these there were a few fierce melodramas
involving shipwrecks and derailments; also, the pursuit
pictures, in which a whole village joined in a mad chase
and tore through town, upsetting apple-earts, baby-car-
riages, and scaffoldings, until finally everybody was sub-
dued in a bath of whitewash. ' ' Them was the good old
days!"

This palled, however. There was a demand for
romance, plot, and real acting. The mechanics were up
against it, but they stuck to their tasks and did their level
best to meet requirements. Now their best was rather

THE FILM FAVORITE 45

awful ; yet it must be said that some of these same chaps
grew in artistry as the world moved ahead. Gradually
there came into the picture business men who had brains,
technic, and poesy. At the present time there are en-
gaged in this work in America half a dozen really great
artists, and a considerable number who are better than
the pictures they are compelled to make. But, alas!
many of them are merely showmen of the rough-and-
tumble type. They stick to the early technic ; and when
they add to it a new symbol, it is ignorantly conceived.

Even some of the better directors are guilty of childish
devices. The present pilot of my particular star still
insists that an engagement can be put over only by the
use of the ring. While performing last week in a very
romantic story, I was called on in the first scene, when I
met Her, to show that I had been very much impressed.
I endeavored to do this quietly and unostentatiously, as
any fellow would, still recording the fact that my senti-
mental bell had been rung. But the director would not
stand for it.

"You know it, and she knows it; but remember this:
there are thousands of fans who would never get it with-
out having it driven in with a mallet ! Now do it again ;
and leave nobody in doubt ! ' '

So I went through the regular formula for love at first
sight, which first consists in enlarging the eyes, to indi-
cate wonder ; then a smile, suffusing the face, to register
satisfaction; ending, however, in the pointed brows, the
sign by which one interrogates. The next spasm is the
heaving chest, to indicate that the heart has been stirred
to its nethermost depths. Now, "determination to have
her at any cost" must be shown. This is accomplished

46 FILM FOLK

by a toss of the head, a forward thrust of the chin, and
a tense clenching of the fists.

"When I pulled this sort of stuff, I tried to maintain
that the last Chink in the back row could finish the
story — for what chance has the poor girl when Handsome
Harold is thus affected and determined ? But the direc-
tor was stubborn, and his final argument was the success
of the film.

SYMBOLISM BETTER THAN REALISM

The more violent work is really more easily produced
than that of the higher forms of drama, for the reason
that the actors are obedient puppets, performing to cer-
tain set symbols. For instance, when parts are assigned
for a new play each actor knows instantly how to make
up. The father of a girl of eighteen must look sixty at
least, gray and dignified. The mother of the same young
lady must appear motherly, that is, like Martha Wash-
ington, or a dear old dowager duchess. In reality, the
father and mother of a girl of eighteen would be enjoying
their vigorous forties, and, likely as not, would be found
on the tennis court playing a hard deuce set; but as
symbols they would never do, unless elaborately labeled.

The chap cast for the doctor, without further ado
makes up with a fine, septic point-lace beard and a stem,
professional frown. I recently visited a meeting of the
American Medical Association and, as a moving-picture
actor, I was amazed at the scarcity of facial foliage — a
few mustaches, but most faces were clean-shaved.

I have often wondered whether the victory of the North
in the Civil "War was very creditable. If we are to
believe the moving-pictures depicting that struggle, all

THE FILM FAVORITE " 47

the officers wore gray mustaches and goatees. It does
not seem fine to have beaten up so many old men.

The negro mammy in those same war dramas was
originally designed by Lew Dockstader, and the symbol
has never changed. Why, you ask, do they always make
up white people as negroes who could not possibly de-
ceive a child, when a real mammy is so easy to find ? The
colored folk are infinitely better actors and much easier
to obtain than Indians; yet these people are rarely
faked.

No doubt it has been noticed that we insist on Indians
wearing war-bonnets at all times, whether they are at
war, peace, or Irish picnics ; but an Indian minus feath-
ers would be like a fisherman without his oil-skins. You
can bet our fishermen never venture forth without oil-
skins. On the hottest days in August, with a sea like
glass, we load up the poor devils with rubber boots, tar-
paulins, and sou 'westers. They eat, sleep, and work in
those smelly garments at all times ; if any of them should
be omitted, even for an instant, some clerk in the front
row might mistake a fisherman for a butcher.

A great many actors know better than to behave as
they do, and occasionally they care enough to argue the
point with the director. Sometimes even the extra
people develop courage sufficient to revolt. In one story
the director curiously enough happened on a cockney
Englishman to play the part of a butler, a position he
knew well by long years of service. At the first re-
hearsal the explosion came. Condon had ordered him to
dress like a court chamberlain in a fairy-tale. He sub-
mitted to this indignity; but when he was told to stand
like a ramrod, with his nose in the air and his arms

48 FILM FOLK

held like parentheses, loyalty to his calling demanded
that he protest.

HOW A BUTLEE SHOULD BUTTLE

"Oh, I say, Mr. Condon, I cawn't act that w'y! In-
deed I cawn't ! No, sir ! I 've friends who will see this
pitcher, and I cawn't 'ave 'em think I 've lost me reason.
I 've served in some of the best 'omes in Lunnon, sir, and
I never yet saw a butler dressed as I am, sir. Sometimes
a colored weskit and gloves, sir; but never such duds as
these, sir! Some of the rich brewers 'ave footmen
dressed as 'andsome, but never a butler, sir! On my
word, sir!

' ' And then such manners, sir ! A butler does not walk
like a German soldier doing the goose step, sir. Nor do
they stop and turn a comer on their 'eels, sir, like a bally
sergeant! No, sir — if I do say it — the manners of a
good English butler are graceful and easylike. I think
you 'ave 'card the story, sir, of Lord Cromer's dreadful
blunder in mistaking the American Ambassador for the
butler. It 'appened at Marlborough 'Ouse, sir. No,
sir; if I am to play the part of the butler, sir, I 'ope
you will permit me to play it as it ought to be done,
sir!"

With that out of his system, the butler stood expec-
tant. This is what he got :

"When I want you to help in directing I '11 make you
my assistant. Meantime you play the part as I tell you.
This story is not produced to entertain a bunch of
English servants, but for the American public; and I
have an idea that I know their definition of a butler a
little better than you do."

Charlie Chaplin and Rob Wagner

Oourtesy of Artijraft Studios

Douglas Fairbanks has to keep in perfect physical trim for his
athletic stunts

THE FILM FAVORITE 49

This character of the butler is the most useful of any
in the photo-drama. It is amazing the amount of
scenery he saves! An interior set may be cheap and
shoddy, and have about the same magnificence as a tin-
type studio; yet when a splendid butler enters, one be-
gins to breathe the rarefied atmosphere of aristocracy
and the spectators get their bearings at once, for they
know from reading our popular novelists that only the
rich can afford such pets.

The richness of an interior set is in direct proportion
to the amount of furniture used. The richer the people,
the more impedimenta clutter up their lives. Plumbers
who have risen to the proud distinction of moving-
picture directors insist that the rich simply wallow in
furniture. A truckload of junk rented from the Peo-
ple's Outfitting Company, with a large plaster Cupid
and Psyche from the prop, room, will produce a salon
that would make the Duke of Bedford hide under his
bed.

Jorkins, the butler, is not the only servant who has a
fixed symbol, however. Burgette, the maid in the
banker's home, is equally well standardized. She wears
astonishingly short skirts, a white tidy on her head, a
dinky little apron, and answers the simplest questions
with a curtsy. As no maid in real life ever performed
thus, I think this symbol must have come down to us
via musical comedy. Sometimes, when the action be-
comes fast, these poor French dolls bob like corks.

In looking over my note-book, I realize that I have
forgotten to mention the lads in the hair pants. What
would become of the "Western stuff without these curious
nether garments ? A sombrero, an open shirt, two young

50 FILM FOLK

cannon, a package of tobacco, and hair pants — and your
lily-handed leading man has immediately achieved the
outward symbols of the boy of blood and oxen.

Up to now I have spoken only of the standardization
of characters; but action has become quite as hard-
boiled, and there are definite stunts by which to express
the whole gamut of human emotions, intentions, and con-
ditions. I think I have mentioned how love at first sight
is registered; but there is one bit of action even more
stupid than that.

"Watch for a moment the actions of Jack Manly, who
is about to call on Miss Oodles Ovit at her home in
Fifth Avenue. Does he approach the house, glance at
the number, then walk up the steps and ring the bell?
He does not. He comes down the street, card in hand,
scrutinizing every number until he arrives in front of
the house and the camera ; here he points to the number
— which can be read a mile — one digit at a time; then,
holding up the card — cut-in, showing card enlarged — ^he
points out the figures on it one at a time, thus showing
that the numbers are identical. This accomplished, he
turns to the camera and, his face beaming with delight-
ful surprise, brings down his fist in his open palm and
unmistakably says: "I '11 do it!"

The quick sequence of events necessary to tell a story
in twenty minutes often requires that love at sight shall
ripen into an engagement in sixty feet of film. The
only way so far discovered by most directors to indicate
this pleasing result is through the symbol of the en-
gagement ring. Every actor must carry a pocketful of
these in different sizes, so as to be ready for any emer-
gency.

THE FILM FAVORITE 51

If the handsome cowboy in the leather panties meets
the girl from Gotham for the first time, in the middle
of the desert, and strolls off up the wash to make moving-
picture love to her, he must be ready on returning close
to the camera to slip on her finger a ring that fits.
This saves much talk, a trip to the jeweler, and other
clap-trap of real life.

Death is put over by two different symbols, one for
the home and the other for outdoors. The sick-room
death scene, with slight variations, is pictured thus:
The doctor and the family are on the far side of the
bed, which is set in a stage tableau depicting tense anxi-
ety. The sick mother, lying well downstage, rises from
her pillow, stares vacantly into the Great Beyond,
clutches frantically at her beads, and, with several fine
convulsions, expires. The doctor now takes her limp
hand, looks long and thoughtfully at the departed, and
then, slowly raising his eyes to the chief loser, mourn-
fully shakes his head. She sighs heavily and, turning
to the next mourner, shakes her head ; the next one does
the same to his neighbor — and so on down the line to the
last servant. "When they have all shaken their heads one
feels sure that Annie's mother has passed on; but, lest
there should be some mental defective among the specta-
tors who has not understood, the doctor closes Annie's
mother's eyes and pulls the sheet over her head. This
clioches the fact that death has come.

DEATH AND KISSES IN THE OPEN

The out-of-door demise is presented in quite a differ-
ent way. Here the victim has been shot, smothered, or
run over. The doctor arrives, looks over the wreckage

52 FILM FOLK

and, facing the camera, says: "Dead!" But, instead
of sighing and shaking their heads, the bystanders all
remove their hats and drop to one knee in prayer and
benediction. Anyone who has ever seen firemen stop
in the midst of their hazards and hose to pray for
the fatality on the sidewalk knows how true to life this
picture is. Think of a bunch of cowboys in hair pants
showing respect in this way ! It is superb !

I have often wondered what lawyers think of the
jurisprudence of the moving-pictures. It stands to rea-
son that we could not very well wait on the slow proc-
esses of the law, when we must do so much in twenty
minutes. It does seem, however, that we ought at least
to legalize our wills and weddings by having witnesses
to the former and licenses for the latter. But what do
we care for such trifles! "We can arrest — ^without war-
rant — try, and hang a man with five hundred feet of
film. That beats anything England ever did with her
snappy criminal code.

Up to date there is only one recognized symbol to in-
dicate great distance: we shade the eyes, lean forward,
and sweep the long horizon. I used to believe that
when a person shaded his eyes it was to keep out the
sun; yet we do it, in broad-brimmed hats or with our
backs to the sun, on cloudy days, and, in fact, under the
fierce, penetrating rays of the quarter moon. Having
discovered our quarry, or prey, or prize, 'way off yonder,
our instincts call us naturally to instant action ; but we
must not start too soon. So, after gulping, backing and
filling for at least ten feet of film, we gain a firm foot-
hold and, with heaving chest, fare forth.

Moving-picture lovers are the kissiest people on earth.

THE FILM FAVORITE 53

"We kiss letters, lockets, flowers, fans, fur coats, and any-
other props that happen to be kicking round or are con-
cealed beneath the bosom of the sentimental lad or lass.
And when we arrive at the happy ending — well ! ! It is
technically known as the clinch, and ends the film in a
slow dissolve. The action begins by a coyness on the
part of Hortense and a languid yeamiag on the part of
the lad. Finally we rush together in an attitude re-
sembling the first hold in the bunny hug. Then slowly
she raises her face to mine and I bend to my duty,
the picture dissolving out in a long languorous kiss that
leaves the on-lookers wondering all the way home how
long we stuck it out !

So essential is the clinch, to show that lovers care
for each other, that we pull it off in the most extraordi-
nary places. Anywhere, from the hurricane deck of a
camel to a comer of Fifth Avenue at noon, will do. "We
are shameless, yet the villagers seem not to notice any-
thing unusual; in real life we should be pinched, or
should draw a crowd that would send in a riot call.

WHEN DIGNITY COLLAPSES

Of all phases of the silent drama subtle comedy is the
most difficult of expression; and a situation that de-
pends on the turn of a phrase and a witty reply in a
dialogue is almost impossible, because of the objection
to long titles and the cutting of the picture with too
many subtitles. Many of our best comedians, who have
amused us well for years on the legitimate stage, have
made miserable failures in the photoplay; but, on the
other hand, the low comedians and the clowns are en-
joying a tremendous vogue, the fellow with the rubber

54 FILM FOLK

face or the one who can submit to the greatest anatomical
assaults seeming to win the heartiest approval.

These entertainers have brought back all the old clap-
trap of the miisic-hall and vaudeville; the slap-stick,
Seltzer bottle, and bucket of paste are creating uproari-
ous laughter, as they did twenty years ago. The de-
mand for these purveyors of joy seems to be in direct
proportion to the number of flip-flaps one can negotiate
when kicked in the stomach ; but even so. Seltzer bottles
and slap-sticks alone will not carry an actor to very great
heights. Even in the rough stuff there must be art.

A few years ago there came to Los Angeles, in a
riotous vaudeville stunt, a little bit of a fellow who
seemed designed by Nature for the photo-comedy. He
was a hit from the start, and in less than four years he
had become probably the best-known actor in the world.
There is no doubt that at this moment he has the great-
est personal following in the whole history of the stage ;
therefore it becomes interesting to try to analyze his
success.

What does he do that is so funny ? Why do we howl
at his antics? It gets us nowhere to try to appear supe-
rior and dismiss him as a cheap vulgarian; for, notwith-
standing an occasional lapse of this kind, he is yet the
god Billiken to one hundred million people. A man
who can make a nation laugh, not once, but every week,
must be considered.

Perhaps Gr. K. Chesterton gives us the answer. Our
English paradoxer takes the most elemental joke in the
world and asks the question: "Why do we laugh when
a fat man falls down? We do not laugh when a tree
falls, or a house, or a child, or a poor man ; but we howl

THE FILM FAVORITE 55

when a fat man strikes a banana peel, and even the
gods smile when he is compelled to chase his high hat
down the street."

"Why is this funny? The question is answered in
Chesterton's statement that the reason is a religious
one. Man, he says, has decided that he is made in God's
image and has thus given himself a divine dignity.
"Now the collapse of dignity is essentially humorous;
and the greater the dignity, the greater the collapse.
There is nothing in Nature so dignified as a fat man
in a high hat; hence the humor of his faU."

The keen observer will recall that the comedian under
discussion has evolved a character of much dignity; he
wears always the suave manner and sartorial symbols of
gentility, though a shabby gentility, it is true. His
tightly buttoned coat seems to express a dignified hope
that the absence of a shirt will not be noticed ; his small,
well-trained mustache, his bowler hat and ever-present
cane — all are symbols of the gentleman. Even his little
mincing walk and the stiff-legged rigidity with which
he takes the comer are the things that make his collapse
so utterly comic. He kicks his way through life, and
in turn is kicked; yet his manner is one of dignified
aloofness from the proximity to danger. The humor of
his kicks lies in the fact that they emanate very suddenly
from a serene, reposeful attitude of calm dignity. Even
in his most tumultuous scenes, the manner in which he
grasps his stick and endeavors to keep on his hat shows
that he is constantly aware of the dignity he fears to
lose.

Lacking this attribute, his rivals are only clowns.
Even the clown, if you remember, played opposite the

56 FILM FOLK

ringmaster in high hat and swallowtail, in order to have
something dignified to upset. The fall of the ring-
master was humorous; the fall of the clown merely
grotesque.

The same test applies to the humor of the comic police-
man. A guardian of law and order, his uniformed and
serious dignity is in joyful eclipse when the patrol-
wagon hits a hydrant and the police department goes
rolling down the street into the river.

It is amusing to hear some of the bad comedians try-
ing to account for the other fellow's success, when they
know perfectly well that their own stuff is so much
better. Benny Bernstein, who does rough comedy for
our studio, spends his life trying to imitate and outdo
his master. A few days ago I heard some extra peo-
ple laughing uproariously on the seat next to me;
and, looking over the screen, I beheld Benny with
his head in a goldfish bowl. He was drinking the
water and apparently eating the fish — an Epicurean
illusion produced by the use of sliced carrots. And
Benny gets a good salary for eating goldfish! He tells
me he is now working on a magnetic wig that will cause
the hair to perform with every change of gesture ; with
this he hopes to land in the thousand-doUars-a-week
class.

However, the comedians have one advantage over us:
each of them can and does invent his own technic.
Comic situations are limited, but within the limitations
the comedian is an individual; in fact, it is only the
manner in which he kicks or shoots his opponent in the
north equatorial region, or accepts kicks and shots on the

THE FILM FAVOEITE 57

same anatomical target, that differentiates him from
other comedians.

In thus attempting an analysis of moving-picture
technic one wonders what it has to do with art. That
there is art — and even great art — finding expression in
the films, none but an utter bigot wEl deny ; yet it must
be admitted that much of the present output could
hardly claim such designation, and it is that which has
been under discussion.

We of the moving-pictures have all kinds of censor-
ship in the interest of the morals of messenger boys;
but as yet there has been no official protector of poor,
old, defenseless art from the criminal ravages of the
dramatic plumbers. However, the higher censorship of
public patronage is beginning to assert itself, and the
great success of some of the really fine productions is
a most hopeful sign. The average spectator is not so
low-browed as the old-time director thought, or else
the crowd has improved immeasurably in the past few
years. The estimate of indiscriminating ignorance is
fast going the way of the dear old fiction which says that
the moving-pictures are patronized only by children.

There remains in the moving-pictures a good deal
of artistic carnage, but it is due to an abnormal condi-
tion consequent to a sudden enormous demand on an
art that was not properly prepared. At present, salaries
out of all proportion to service are paid. Pretty little
girls with very modest talents, and mediocre actors with
beautiful hair and cow eyes, get greater pay than sena-
tors. This is but a part of the evolutionary process
of a new and sudden art.

58 FILM POLK

As it shakes itself down, the mechanics will be re-
placed by artists. More men with full sets of brains
will be attracted ; and then — I shall lose my job ; but as
Mrs. Grandon, who never has been properly impressed
by my success, says :

"WeU, of course, Spencer, you 're a good strong boy
— and you can always go to work!"

II

THE MOVIE QUEEN
(A WOMAN'S POINT OF VIEW)

I MAY CHAPIN, rough-stuff comedy girl, have been
elected to splash into the strange waters of literature
and celebrate the lives of the movie queens. No doubt
I shall have to come up for air occasionally, so this story
is likely to have about as much literary construction as a
hardware catalogue. However, I hope the editors will
be as good sports as I am. Like "Spencer Grandon," I,
too, shall use the device of anonymity to conceal from
the public the identity of my characters — myself in-
cluded. For this is not to be press-agent stuff, but a
further intimate peek into the lives of the film folk.

Whatever biography the story contains must, of neces-
sity, be that of two girls, for Agnes Underbill and I met
in high school, when we entered the ninth grade with
four hundred other students from all over town ; and our
lives have run parallel ever since. There is a joyous
democracy in such a school as we attended, profitable
both to those who come from the Westlake district and
to those from the gas tanks. Agnes was a beautiful,
cultured daughter of one of the first families; I, too,
was the daughter of a first family — if you come ia by
the Way of Watts. Her father was a judge of the
superior court; mine, a motor cop. Both were officers

59

60 FILM FOLK

of the law ; we had at least that much in common. But
notwithstanding the great social gulf that separated
us, by the end of our Scrub year we were known as
Mocha and Java.

Mrs. Grandon, who is guide, philosopher, and friend
to all the girls at the studio, has the most fascinating
reasons for these high-school friendships. They are
economic and sociological, and I cannot quote them here ;
but she makes a very strong point of the fact that two
boys on our debating team were the closest friends, while
their fathers, who were rivals in business, notoriously
hated each other. The reason, she says, was because
their interests were identical.

THE GOLDEN AGE OP ROMANCE

Agnes and I had an identity of interest. Besides our
mutual loyalty to the school, we both wanted to be
movie actresses. In this desire, however, we were not
entirely original, for out of twelve hundred girls at the
school at least eleven hundred and fifty aspired to the
same lofty heights. Some of them, of course, were tak-
ing domestic science and others commercial courses;
yet there burned in the heart of nearly every girl there
a romantic hope that some time she would attain the
purple of a moving-picture queen.

But we two had determination as well as hope, and we
framed up our courses with our goal in mind. We took
all the oral English expression, and dramatics the school
offered, and that was one of the strongest departments.
We had a class on stagecraft that made a practical study
of the mechanical side of dramatic work. In our second
year we were both elected to the Players Club, and by

THE MOVIE QUEEN 61

the time we were eleventh graders Agnes had won the
lead for the big play of the year. I was given a comedy
role.

We were now fully determined to show some of the
movie queens how it ought to be done, though I fear
I was the more dynamic determiner of the two. I knew
perfectly well that my mother would explode when I
told her my plans, and as for Dad, he would cut out
his muffler on the choicest lot of Irish thunder-words
in his vocabulary. But though Dad was very volatile,
he always permitted his little May to go right up and
scratch him between the horns, and in the end he would
blow out a tire to help her get her tiniest wish. With
Agnes it was different. Her set believed in owning mov-
ing-picture studios, but in working elsewhere. She was
destined for college, Europe, and all the other finishing
touches which would fit her for her station in life. It
was my job to nurse her rebellion and keep her un-
tamed. I was firmly convinced that if ever Agnes broke
in, she would make most of the headliners look like can-
celed postage stamps.

These were our school-girl dreams. We simply had
to act; there was nothing else for it. The gods had
marked us and the world must not be denied. Ex-
actly what I was to do I had never quite determined, but
I knew I was to do it magnificently. Agnes was more
romantic than I and read Maurice Hewlett ; I liked Shaw,
Synge, and George Moore, my tastes being Irish. And
heavens, the superiority we felt to girls who were con-
tent with Longfellow, Wordsworth, and Dickens!
Agnes 's romance was abstract — she wasn't very strong
for the boys ; mine was concrete, and I always included

62 FILM POLK

a suitor or two, until I fell for my film favorite. Then
the boys became merely scenery to me.

I have learned that every age has its romance. My
mother tells me that her girlish dream was to marry
the riagmaster of a circus and go to Niagara Falls on a
wedding trip ; while my grandmother, when young, was
wont to read the novels of The Duchess, and spent her
maidenhood hoping that some day Sir Guy Harringsford
would come galloping through her village and carry
her off to his manor house, where she would live and
die a willing prisoner. My idea of the quintessence of
romance was to play opposite Spencer Grandon, and
have him mean what he does in the final dissolve. I '11
bet I had fifty pictures of him, my favorite being the
one in the sport shirt. Oh, those cow eyes of his! I
could have died for "one look into their abysmal
depths. ' ' And to think, all this time he was married to
the finest girl in the world!

While I was dreaming of my hero, Agnes had a case
on a girl, for she always bestowed her affections on her
own gender. This romantic phenomenon is common
among school-girls. First it was her dramatics teacher,
and then Vivian Vane, the reigning movie queen. I
couldn't understand this devotion at all. Vivian Vane
was beautiful, but it was an insipid sort of beauty and,
personally, I thought Agnes had her beaten to a cus-
tard. Anyway, I burned all my candles before Spencer
Grandon.

THE VISIT OP VIVIAN VANE

In our last year in school Agnes had the lead in the
Senior play and I, as usual, had the comedy role.

THE MOVIE QUEEN 63

That 's what always fell to me, because I had a tumed-up
nose. My dramatics teacher insisted, however, that I
was thus fated because I inherited my father's grim
sense of humor.

Her slant on Dad was gained from the following
episode : One day my mother received a note from the
vice-principal criticizing my personal appearance. She
objected, she said, to the rouge. Mother wrote and told
her that if I came to school that way again, I was to
have my face washed right there. Next day it so hap-
pened. Imagine her chagrin when my Irish skin re-
fused to yield up its color. A few days later Dad ar-
rested the vice-principal for speeding on Wilshire Boule-
vard!

Though we were up to our ears in the Senior play,
June seemed ages away. "We had become the worst
movie fans in school, and were restless to splash in.
We went to see all the first runs we could crowd into
Saturdays and holidays, and we usually managed to
sneak in a few others during the week. We read all the
motion-picture magazines, and once, in sweet embarrass-
ment, we wrote letters to our favorites. We received no
replies.

One day the principal of the school announced at
assembly that he had given permission to a picture com-
pany to make scenes on our campus at the noon roll-
call. The boys were to play some football, and the
other students were to fill up the bleachers. We were
only mildly excited, for many other companies had
used our campus in a similar way; but imagine Agnes'
sensations when she heard the cheer-leader call through
his megaphone: "Now, all together, fellows! Let's

64 FILM FOLK

give three for Vivian Vane ! Are you r-e-a-d-y ?" Two
thousand students roared their Indian greeting as the
queen of the movies emerged from her automobile.

"Agnes," I said, "if you want to meet her, beat it
down to one hundred and forty and stick round until
she comes! Don't ask any questions. I 've got a
scheme. ' '

I made the fine-arts building in about two jumps, and
when I returned to the field I bore a note to Miss Vane
from our teacher in dramatics which invited her to visit
our class in stagecraft. "Would she come over right
after the picture ? She would ! And Little May was to
escort her, greatly to the jealousy of one thousand callow
school-boys.

Through long association with each other Agnes and I
were telepathic partners, so she tumbled to my scheme
at once, and when I ushered the brightest star in filmdom
into one hundred and forty to see the workings of the
miniature theater and our new lightning stunts, Agnes
had everything in readiness. They took to each other
at once, and when they parted Miss Vane was asking
Agnes to come and see her at the studio. You should
have seen that girl after her goddess had flown!

Her eyes were as large as a leading man's and she
fairly trembled in ecstasy. That afternoon she flunked
in chemistry and Spanish; the next day she flunked in
everything.

The following Saturday Agnes took a car to Holly-
wood at seven o'clock in the morning, though her en-
gagement was not until ten. What she did there I was
never able to learn; she raved and mooned about so
much that I could gather little sense. All I really un-

THE MOVIE QUEEN 65

derstood was that when she departed the beautiful
Vivian had kissed her good-by and had given her a signed
photograph. After she left the studio she walked four
miles in the country. She wanted to be alone !

It was now good-by to work, home, mother, and every-
thing! Agnes bought an old-rose sweater like Vivian's;
she wore her hair like Vivian's; she had her dresses
made like Vivian's; to Vivian she sent flowers and notes.
In fact, in all the Vicissitudes of Vivian there was noth-
ing so terrible as the ease Agnes had on her. I tried
to hold her to the ground, but she had gone up in the
air like a beautiful pink balloon. Her work in school
became utterly demoralized and, dropping from the
proud heights of four A's in the first term, she had
notices from all her teachers of impending failure.

One day the vice-principal called Agnes to the office,
where she met her mother — face to face. Preliminaries
were short. With the wisdom that comes with her office
the vice-principal explained in two minutes exactly what
the trouble was.

THE SIEGE OP THE STUDIOS

"Mrs. Underbill," she said, "this moving-picture busi-
ness is the hardest problem we have to combat. All the
girls are troubled with it and a few of them have
lost their heads entirely. We have more than twelve
hundred girls in this school, and if it were not for con-
stant supervision of their dress and manners, a thousand
of them would look like moving-picture actresses. Such
are the standards of the day."

Agnes was dismissed from the conference. What hap-
pened subsequently I do not know, but she began im-

66 FILM FOLK

mediately to feel the results at home. Her wardrobe
was edited from hat to shoes, and to add to her humilia-
tion her brothers guyed her unmercifully.

If it had not been that our past records in school had
been good, I don't know how we should ever have grad-
uated, for our minds were so fuU of plans for a summer
campaign of assaults on the movie studios that we could
think of little else. The annual discussion as to the
propriety of each girl's making her own commencement
gown out of a dollar's worth of material, or being per-
mitted to blow herself according to her ability, did not
interest us in the least. All we wished was to muddle
through somehow, and then be free.

The week following our graduation we set out, I with
the consent of my family, but Agnes surreptitiously.
Our first few days' experience was very discouraging.
We found that we were not the only girls who were
trying to break in, that there were literally hundreds of
us. True, most of the applicants waiting in line were
without any qualifications whatsoever, even good looks,
yet there were a few who seemed to have it all over
us.

At the big studios there were regular employment
agencies with limited office hours, usually from nine un-
til eleven, and the method of registration was not unlike
that used at domestic employment offices. As a rule
they simply took one's name and address, and that ended
it. But if the unsympathetic gent with the cold eyes
saw anything in an applicant that he thought might be
useful, he would look her over, like a judge in a dog
show, and ask innumerable questions.

In three studios we were fortunate enough to have

THE MOVIE QUEEN 67

our photographs and points entered in the large album.
Dad told me that burglars enjoyed the same attention
in his business. I learned later that all these albums
are indexed according to type, so that the studio can,
at a moment's notice, get in touch with any kind of
human architecture that a particular piece calls for.

We found, however, that a simple registration of our
physical charms and eccentricities was not enough. A
perpetual bombardment was advisable, for often the
assistant directors would go down the line or into the
yard and pick a lucky victim — sometimes a whole bunch
— ^for immediate work. The waiting in line was pretty
tiresome at times, but it was made interesting in con-
templating the others and hearing their stories — tired
girls out of work, unhappy wives, ambitious mothers,
and no end of school-girls registering under fictitious
names.

The mothers with precocious or stupid children were
the most puzzling to me. Some of them, in the hope of
exploiting their offspring, had dressed them up like
bisque doUs with bare knees and skirts like lamp shades.
One mother actually had her little four-year-old daugh-
ter painted like a leading lady. The sight was dis-
couraging to one opposed to child labor.

Since this first insight into mother love as displayed
at moving-picture studios I have seen some shocking
things. The hardships some mothers submit their chil-
dren to for three dollars a day is downright cruel. I
saw one woman allow her infant in arms to lie in a cot
through a fire scene in which the babe was nearly
strangled by smoke from the pots. The director, on
account of something that was wrong, ordered a retake.

68 FILM FOLK

The mother immediately placed the poor child back in
the cot. When the director's attention was called to the
condition of the infant he gave the woman a fearful
dressing down, cut out the scene, and told her never to
report at the studio again. Of course all the mothers
were not as wicked as that one ; yet we saw some pretty
hard faces during those discouraging days of waiting.

SOUVENIES OF TITLE-k6uBS

Besides this method of direct application, there was
another way to break into the pictures: this was by go-
ing to dramatic schools that guaranteed to place the
student, after good, stiff training and a stiffer price.
Some of them no doubt were honest enough, but there
were innumerable fakes. Then there were men who
advertised that if you simply paid for the film, they
would take a picture of you leading in some standard
drama or opera, such as Carmen; and in this way the
actress could see exactly how she looked on the screen.
It was also promised that these films would be submitted
to the directors, who would immediately seek out any-
body who made the grade. There are many poor, dis-
illusioned girls who have a few feet of such film as the
only souvenir of their dramatic experience. Still it is
something to have once played the title-role in Carmen.
There are real actresses who have n 't done that.

But the most undignified way of achieving one's dra-
matic Arcadia was to answer one of the innumerable
advertisements for girls. Some of them were invitations
to attend a ball "where a well-known director will be in
attendance and for a prize will select the prettiest girl
on the floor and guarantee her a position with a famous

THE MOVIE QUEEN 69

company." Others were for bunches of girls to act in
mob stuff.

As sophisticated as we thought we were, Agnes and
I fell for one of these latter come-ons. Out of the two
hundred girls who answered the advertisement about
twelve were given work for two hours. "We were among
the fortunate dozen. When the scene was finished four
of us were requested to remain ; it looked as though we
had made a hit, and we were the happiest girls in Los
Angeles.

But somehow I did n 't like the looks of the man who
selected us. "When he told us he thought he could use us
Monday and would like us to go motoring to the beach
with him and his assistant to discuss our parts, I had his
number. Dear little Agnes, who was a year older than
I — by the calendar — ^was all for going ; but I said :

"Nothing doing, Mr. Man, on the beach stuff. I think
we shall return to our mahmahs." There is some merit
in having one's dad a motor-cop; he knows the beaches
well ! The other two girls went.

The next advertisement was blind, and we soon dis-
covered the thing was not on the square. One look
at the office and we knew that the buzzards in charge
of the trap had nothing whatever to do with moving-
pictures. I will dwell on this unpleasant phase of the
game only long enough to warn ambitious girls that the
moving-picture business has its share of beasts who
make girls pay for their jobs; and that there are fake
schemes for luring movie-mad girls for purposes de-
liberately sinister. At one time many girls disappeared
so suddenly, after stating that they were going to cer-
tain studios, that the police stationed men in the

70 FILM POLK

"yards," where applicants wait, and arrested several
notorious characters. In these latter cases the studios,
of course, were quite innocent of wrongdoing; their
plants were used by the underworld without their knowl-
edge.

AGNES PROVES A SCREEN BEAUTY

But let 's talk about the birds and the flowers. One
day the cold eyes of the gent with the big album stopped
at our pictures ! Then he read : School-girls, good typ^,
swell dressers, pretty, look intelligent, and so forth. I
saw this charming catalogue three years later and mod-
esty forbids a fuller quotation. He called up our num-
ber and asked my mother if the Chapin sisters would
report at the studio at eight o'clock on the morrow. I
forgot to mention that Agnes was registered everywhere
as my sister, for her family would have been wild had
they known she was trying to break into the movies.
The way they finally learned of it, and the reason of
their consent, will have to be told farther along; but
they will not know, until they read this, exactly how
it all happened. Agnes thinks it will be great fun to
have them learn it in this way.

As I was saying, at last a real studio, one of the best,
had sent for us! It was a rah-rah story with Hubert
Kawlins — I had hoped it would be Spencer Grandon —
in the lead. But Spencer's cow eyes didn't have much
on this leading man, for Hubert Rawlins had the most
ravishing dimples that ever called forth lavender notes
from languishing lassies. The director wanted sorority
girls, and as we were just out of school, we had exactly
the wardrobes that the parts demanded.

THE MOVIE QUEEN 71

Neither of us ever got to college, as our scholastic
schedule called for; but nevertheless we have had all
the thrills that go with sorority life. We joined the
Kappa Pajamas for a week, and if college life is any-
thing like the stuff we did, then acting in the pictures
is puritanical in comparison.

It was a fortunate beginning, for the parts exactly
suited our clothes and temperaments. I pulled some
pretty good comedy in a small way, and Agnes, of
course, was the typical sweet-girl-graduate. The di-
rector was delighted and gave us a lot of praise. When
the first reel was developed it was found that Agnes was
a perfect scream on the screen. Her photographic
beauty was almost sensational. We were both asked to
report the next week.

My story from this point on is not very eventful, for
the simple reason that I landed almost immediately.
Female comedy is the rarest thing in filmdom — there
are ten men to one woman — ^so when they saw I had a
comic slant they grabbed me, and from then on it was
easy sailing. Agnes had a few bumps before she ar-
rived, and they are worth recording because they give
a view of the inside of studio life.

With all her natural gifts Agnes seemed unable to
advance beyond a certain point. She was put on a
guaranty, which meant that she was paid three dollars
a day whether she worked or not, and occasionally she
was given "bits" to do. We did not understand this
treatment of her, for the director of the college picture
had been very encouraging.

But after we had been working for a month we discov-
ered that nowhere in the world is the caste system so

72 FILM FOLK

strong as at the studios. The caste is determined by
salary. The big fish, which include the stars, leads, and
directors, do not swim with the fifty-doUar-a-week char-
acter men and second leads; and these in turn do not
swim with the twenty-doUar-a-week minnows; and the
camera kids, who draw a splendid fifteen per, pass
through the bunch in the yard with perfectly magnifi-
cent hauteur. Thus is the golden inner circle preserved,
though these social distinctions are no doubt account-
able for the failure of so many of the photo-drama clubs.

We found out that these strata were adamantine.
Some of the stars passed us daily for a month, and to
them we were only props. And furthermore, if a star
said, "I do not wish that girl in my picture," even the
director would be forced to acquiesce to her wishes.
But Agnes was extraordinarily beautiful, and patience
finally saved her.

The salaries of the big fish were amazing to me; I
never really believed them until I began drawing one
myself. There seemed to be no end of money. The big
director spent prodigally; he raised the salary of the
costume woman from seventy-five dollars to two hundred
dollars a week with a mere sweep of the hand ; if a bunch
of horsemen did some battle stuff particularly well, he
would order that they each be given ten dollars extra;
he bought a team of horses one day for six hundred dol-
lars, and sold it the next for three hundred.

But one day an order came from New York to cut
expenses. They began at the bottom — and stopped
there. All the minnows were beautifully slashed; the
codfish lost a few scales; but the big whales still fed on
goldfish. Agnes was given a blue notice, which meant

THE MOVIE QUEEN 73

she was off her guaranty and, if she stayed, she would
be paid only when she worked— which was little better
off than the bunch in the yard. She cried for nearly a
week in her dressing-room. Mrs. Grandon, who had
taken to mothering both of us and for whom I had grown
to have a warm affection, notwithstanding the fact that
she had blasted my school-girl hopes of running off with
Spencer, did her best to console Agnes. She assured
her the same rule worked in every phase of what she
called the jungle fight.

"When railroad men are reduced ten per cent, in
wages, the president of the road still gets his fifty thou-
sand dollars," she said. It was true, no doubt, but
that didn't get Agnes anywhere. She wept and
languished.

Another cross the poor girl bore was in keeping her
movie work from her family. Fortunately her father
and mother had gone to Santa Barbara for the summer,
and her refusal to accompany them, "especially as she
was going to college in the autumn and they would see
so little of her," required a lot of explaining. Then
her brother Ralph grew suspicious of so much golf over
at Beverly Hills and followed her one day in his Bear
Cat, as he called his little stripped runabout. He found
out what she was doing, and two or three times he
threatened to squeal. Fortunately Agnes had some-
thing on him. He would have died rather than have her
tell his mother.

WHY VIYIAN VANE SQCCBIiDBD

Agnes had determined to inform the family as soon as
she landed — she felt their opposition would be softened

74 FILM FOLK

by her success — but time was flying, and if nothing hap-
pened within a month, it would be Greek verbs for her!
One night the Grandons invited us to motor with them
along the foothill boulevard. Agnes sat with Spencer
and I rode behind with Mrs. Grandon. As we silently
slid through the gorgeous orange country Mrs. Grandon
talked to me for an hour or more on the subject of suc-
cess, and when Mrs. Grandon has talked for an hour
she has said something. This night she was analyzing
the success of Vivian Vane.

"The greatest human charm is youth," she said.
"Vivian Vane has capitalized it to the limit. Without
any particular dramatic ability she has played up a
winsome girlishness that has made her the greatest
favorite in America. Notice the fine abandon with
which she dresses her hair, yet it is carefully curled, and
the abandon is studied. Her little flat-chested frocks
give her the boyish figure of young girlhood. Her
nwivete is quite as studied as the abandon of her hair;
no woman is naive without purpose. First she pouts,
and then she jumps up and claps her hands. Never,
even in her love scenes, does she permit herself to lose
her innocent charm. Instead of acting like the mature
maid in the full glory of her sex, who raises a soulful
face to be kissed by the hero in amorous embrace, she
just snuggles up and buries her face in his shoulder; and
her lover must be satisfied with a chaste salute on the
top of her golden hair. Her technic is always the same ;
and it always gets over."

I did not sleep much that night, for my red head was
evolving a perfectly good scheme. Next day I went to

THE MOVIE QUEEN 75

Harry Barlow, director of the college picture, and told
him if he would give Agnes a chance in a one-reel in-
genue part, I would pay her salary; but she mustn't
know it. I knew the director was limited in his salary
list, so that otherwise he could not use her. I was get-
ting thirty a week.

The director agreed to my plan, and then I asked
Agnes to go with me to see Vivian Vane in a different
picture every night for a week. We made a systematic
study of her technic and the psychology of her audiences.
Mrs. Grandon was right. So I said to Agnes :

"If that 's all there is to it, dearie, you have the fig-
ure, the tresses, and the beautiful fagade. Now let's see
if you can give a correct imitation of sweet sixteen."

The scheme worked beautfully. The first picture was
a success, and the second one better. Agnes soon
dropped all imitations and began to exhibit her own
sweet personality without any affectation. The rest was
easy, and her future was assured by the manager of the
studio, who offered her a contract.

It now became necessary to make known her identity,
so we went together to the manager and told him the
situation. He only smiled and called in his press agent.

"Mac," he said, "you can release that story of
Judge Underbill's daughter making good in the pic-
tures."

Agnes looked flabbergasted for a minute, but she man-
aged to say: "Do you mean, Mr. Wendell, that you
knew I was not May's sister?"

"Why, my dear child, I 've known it for a month and
have talked it all over with your father ; he is strong for

76 FILM FOLK

you. All that bothered him was your possible failure.
The story in the paper will make him purr like a jew's-
harp."

Agnes was so happy that she motor-bussed up to Santa
Barbara over the week-end.

And such a story! I am glad Judge Underbill was
capable of purring. It was a two-column feature with
a three-column cut of Agnes. "Society Bud Makes
Debut in Film." The same old bunch of superlatives
followed. I thought the display would seem a bit vulgar
to the Underbills, but they were quite unperturbed.
Mrs. Grandon says that the judicial mind is not neces-
sarily immune from ordinary human vanities.

But this was not the usual press-agent palaver.
Agnes had really arrived. In fact, in a very short time
her pictures became wonderful sellers. As the demand
increased, her salary advanced, and within six months
from the time we first went to the studio she was making
a hundred and fifty dollars a week. Then she left us to
go with another studio at two hundred and fifty dollars,
and for a year or more she was first with one and then
with another; but she finally came back where she
started, with her first director, Harry Barlow. That
was four years ago. Since then they have gone up the
ladder together, until Agnes is now one of the greatest
favorites in America, with a salary of a thousand dol-
lars a week — the kind of money the banks will take;
and Harry Barlow is one of the big stockholders of the
company. If Agnes had written this story, she might
have told you whether or not the business ladder was
the only one she intends to climb with Harry Barlow.
I don't know myself, but I am a monstrous good guesser.

THE MOVIE QUEEN 77

COSTLY PRODUCTIONS AND BIG SALARIES

Now that I have got us into the pictures and you
have met a couple of movie queens, I shall talk about the
inmates of filmdom and their capers. A few observa-
tions, a lot of facts, and an occasional adventure suggest
a literary omelet that would get a "not passed" in
B9, English. But this tale is not written for school-
teachers; and besides, that seems to me to be the only
way to tell the things I feel most people want to know.

The first question usually hurled at us is this: "Are
the advertised salaries and costs of production press-
agent stuff?" Well, here is the truth, as near as a
woman can get it in such things. Big feature pictures
cost from fifty to one hundred and fifty thousand dollars
to produce, which, of course, is much more than most
stage plays cost ; but the earning capacities of a success-
ful film are iafinitely greater than the greatest of the
legitimate dramas. In some cases one can estimate the
cost of feature plays by dividing the press dope by
three.

The amazing salary stories of the stars, however, are
usually pretty true. As a rule the men do not earn so
much as the women. This difference in the drawing
power of men and women is one of the strangest
phenomena of the moving-pictare business. On the
legitimate stage great stars are famous irrespective of
sex; but in the movies the girls are far more popular
than the men. Agnes Underbill has a stupendous fol-
lowing of her own sex. In the great lines waiting out-
side the theaters where she is filming, the women out-
number the men three to one. Most of her mail is from

78 FILM POLK

girls, and the older women send her all sorts of gifts,
from Bibles to flannel nighties. They all want to mother
her.

THE DraECTOR AND HIS METHODS

This same sex preference is manifested in the news-
papers. It is very hard to get the press to use pictures
of the men actors; they invariably want girls, and as a
result of this the directors have to face a very serious
problem. Every drama does not demand a girl lead;
yet, as they are much the best sellers, the studios are put
to their wits' ends to meet this financial urge. Naturally
they are in the game, first, as a business.

My own opinion is that of the popularity of girls over
men is largely the fault of the studios themselves. For
some reason they have always believed that a hero should
be beautiful, and they have played up these masculine
dolls to the limit ; whereas if they were discerning they,
would know that most women and all men despise a beau-
tiful man.

The actors and their salaries gain the most pub-
licity; but there is another element, and perhaps the
greatest, in the success of the moving-pictures about
which the world knows little. That element is the di-
rection of the film. The director is a new sort of bird
that so far seems to have been left uncatalogued. I
shall attempt his analysis.

"We find that there are two distinct types with opposite
psychologies, and within each class there are some splen-
did artists and many duffers. Those who are familiar
with the technic of the stage-director know that he must
of necessity have real actors to deal with, or his pro-

THE MOVIE QUEEN 79

duction will be bad, or at least very amateurish. He
can only direct the members of the cast in rehearsal;
when the real performance is given they are cast upon
their own resources. But in film drama the actual per-
formers, from first to last, can be directed from behind
the camera. Each exit and entrance, and every little
movement in between, can be ordered with the most
minute precision.

This method accounts for the success of many an actor
who had nothing to recommend him but an agreeable
personality, and it has developed an entirely new psy-
chology in dramatic art. The director who has it be-
lieves that he alone is the artist of the picture; to him
his actors are merely pigments with which he paints his
canvas. He prefers to work with plastic personalities
who can do his bidding in the tiniest detail. His ego-
centric conception of his function forbids his letting his
paints know his intention, for if his actors should know
the story, they might feel impelled to put their own
interpretation on their parts, thus running counter to
his. So in many cases such directors do not permit the
cast to read the script. Often the actors go through a
whole picture of many reels and haven't the slightest
idea what it is all about. As scenes are never made in
the sequence of their projection, it is easy to understand
the difficulty of interpreting the action.

To illustrate the manner of this kind of directorship,
I shall try to report a scene that I saw at the studio
this morning. The stage was set, the cameras focused
and properly angled, and the cast was ready. The
director, sitting in an arm-chair, flanked by his assist-
ants, called out: "All ready — camera!" Camera man

80 FILM POLK

begins cranking. "Now, Smith, enter slowly — ^look about
— walk to desk — sit down — discover letter — 'I wonder
what this is' — open letter — as you read, register pain —
now slowly raise the eyes — hold it a minute — now regis-
ter pity — lower the head — ^hold it — now reach for the
telephone — call number A4327 — slowly and without ex-
citement — shake head, as though changing your mind —

dissolve " This last order is to the camera man, who

speeds up the machine so that the picture dissolves upon
the screen.

To see an actor with a full set of brains — ^there are a
few with such equipment — ^thus performing like a pup-
pet is somewhat shocking, yet some of them have to do it.
However, this type of director prefers to work with
handsome marionettes who will gladly subordinate what-
ever minds they have to his, and if a director is a real
artist, he can often make the cast do very unusual act-
ing. Not a few of the greatest film successes are only
beautiful creatures with no ability at all, except that of
performing according to instructions. This is proven by
their utter collapse when they chance to fall under the
direction of an inferior artist.

It must not be inferred from this that directors of this
kind are necessarily egotistical. Many of them believe
that a picture should be the work of one man, and the
undeniable success of many of their films fortifies them in
the belief. The great danger from this kind of direc-
tion is that after a while all the manikins act alike. In
other words, they interpret their parts just as the direc-
tor would if he were acting.

The other type of director builds his picture coopera-
tively. He is likely to call his cast together, after hav-

(Courtesy of the Universal Film Co,

Phillipe Smalley, Mme. Schuman-Heink, and Jack Kerrigan

THE MOVIE QUEEN 81

ing given them the script to read, to discuss the play,
the character parts, and perhaps the psychology of the
plot. He confers with the scenic artist, gives the tech-
nical director much latitude, and the actors retain great
individual freedom in interpreting their roles. A full
stage-rehearsal of the play in proper dramatic sequence
is then ordered. In directing the scene just referred
to, he would do it something like this:

"Now, Smith, this is the scene in which you come in
and find the note from your daughter on your desk. You
will recall that when you read it you are crushed, and
your first impulse is to telephone her husband ; but you
haven't the spirit. Now let's try it."

CUSTAED PIE COMEDY

The scene is acted just as Smith thinks it should be
done. Then the director:

"Now that was very good, but I think you should hold
the telephone longer; your indecision didn't get over
very well. Let's try it again."

It can be seen that it is essential that Smith should
know how to act. In fact, this director can work well
only with trained actors. He usually directs stars from
the legitimate stage, and when one of these positive per-
sonalities falls under the first type of director the pic-
ture is a failure, if it ever gets that far. It usually
doesn't, however, for stars object to being told how
to fold their hands.

Nevertheless, both kinds of directors are a success.
One of the greatest in America is of the first type. His
actors, though fairly well known in filmdom, are im-
measurably less important than he is. It is often said

82 FILM FOLK

that the reason he turns over to other directors
the great stage stars who come to his studio is
because he refuses to share the headlines with them.
I think, however, that he believes he can make better
pictures by using plastic actors in this way, than by
permitting personalities to obtrude themselves upon his
canvas. I might add that there are a few directors who
follow both methods, the choice depending upon the
materials with which they have to work.

The egocentric director is almost impossible in comedy,
for that form of expression depends largely upon the
comedian. Most people are familiar with the comedies
in every one of which, year after year, the cut-ups do
exactly the same stuff. They are the work of a director
who employs a lot of fat or thin, long or short, foolish-
looking humans to puU his slapstick stuff. But no real
comedian of the pictures could have aU the details of
his comedy arranged for him, because so much depends
upon the exigencies of the moment. Unlike stage ac-
tors, we cannot have absolute direction, especially when
we are working in public places — on street comers, break-
ing into parades, or at automobile races. One of the
famous comedians of the country canceled his contract
a short time ago because he refused to offer his face
to the impact of a custard pie. He did not know that
custard pie was the favorite comedian at this studio.

In my own case I merely learn the situation, and all
the comedy is my own — often thought out at the last
minute. In rehearsing I simply walk through my part.
Neither the directors nor the actors know exactly what
I am to do until the camera begins.

And here is a curious thing: I often suffer the most

THE MOVIE QUEEN 83

excruciating stage fright during rehearsals and, indeed,
I have sometimes had to abandon a scene temporarily
because of it. But usually when I hear the camera
click it is like a "shot in the arm," and I plunge in
with the most abandoned joyousness.

They say that every comedian wants to play Hamlet
and that every comedienne aspires to Rosalind, but I
have wit enough to recognize my limitations, especially
those of my nose. Also, I am made delightfully aware
that feminiue comedy is the rarest commodity on our
market, and though I am not the romantic favorite that
some of my sisters are, my films sell so well that I beat
nearly all of them to the pay envelope.

UNEEALITIES OF THE SILENT DRAMA

Spencer Grandon in some articles he wrote gave a
pretty full catalogue of the curious symbols of the
"defandum" drama has evolved; but he overlooked
several that, no doubt, the women have noticed. If
a director wishes to register the fact that a woman
does not respond to the unwelcome advances of a man —
say, in a ballroom, where Count Dubski is trying to pick
up the banker's daughter — ^he tells her, first, to flash
anger with her eyes, then turn on her heel, toss up her
head and sail haughtily away. Now no man ever yet
saw a woman behave thus. What they all do — this is
for the benefit of male directors — is simply not to see
the man or notice him at all. Perhaps the reason some
directors have never learned this little fact is because
they are never snubbed.

What kind of married people do you suppose address
each other in letters as "My dear Husband" and "Your

84 FILM FOLK

loving "Wife"? It probably would be shocking in the
picture to have a wife write, "My dear Billy-Boy,"
and sign it, "Devotedly, Mabel." Yet that 's about the
way the married people I know write letters. Think
of any woman, especially some fine old dowager from
the codfish set of Boston, winding up her letter, "Tours
truly, Mrs. Peabody."

Another thing the girls want me to apologize for is
our table manners. I assure you that, out of the pic-
tures, none of us race through our meals with such
atrocious speed as that dictated by directors. Neither
do we aU sit on the windward side of the table in order
to gargle our soup more brazenly. Because there is
so little action, a dinner is difificult to stage, and we are
taught to supply this defect by exaggerated grimaces
and caveman manners. Some directors must think that
our standards are determined at stand-up lunch counters.

Eating is one of the daily physiological functions, dis-
gusting enough, and the only way to make it socially
agreeable is to surround it with an elaborate ritual, called
manners. Let anybody break one of the rules and make
a noise eating soup, and everybody else within earshot
is made quite ill. For this reason I have steadfastly
refused in my comedy roles to resort to any gastronomic
aerobatics. I don't like it. Even rough comedy need
not be coarse.

Another thing: why will they never allow us to act
with our backs to the camera? Our directors seem to
think that digust or indignation can be shown only
with the face. I saw a famous French actress filming
in one of her own successful stage dramas, and in her
best scene she was supposed to have her back to her

THE MOVIE QUEEN 85

audience — and such eloquence as her back revealed!
But her director compelled her to perform fullface to-
ward the camera.

There is one popular misconception that I wish to
end forever — at least, as far as it manifests itself in my
profession— and that is that the female of the species
is more temperamental than the male. This absurd
notion came about through press-agent stories of grand
opera song-birds, who are supposed to be the least de-
pendable bipeds extant. But I could cite hundreds of
examples to prove that the male has ten times the artis-
tic temperament that we are supposed to possess.

Time and time again we have had scenes tied up be-
cause the director was off his oats. In a great big set,
made recently, with more than two hundred people
assembled, the big chief became temperamental and or-
dered in a piano, so that he could learn the new motif
in the lame duck. Everybody joined in the dance and
though some of the joy was not quite refined, it was
good fun. Such concessions as these to the director's
artistic temperament must make pictures cost a lot more
money than necessary. An ill-tempered director will
semetimes pi a whole day's work and dismiss the cast
because he "loses his buttons." Most of them, how-
ever, are supposed to turn out so many feet a week, so
they cannot always indulge their masculine eccentrici-
ties.

To prove further my contention I must tell a story of
a rooster. This incident happened not long ago. But
first it is necessary to inform Eastern readers that the
idea of roosters crowing at sun-up is of purely local
origin. In CaUfomia they crow all the time, night and

86 FILM FOLK

day. In fact, so persistent are they in their paeans that
aU sorts of ordinances are passed either to eliminate the
roosters from the cities or else to compel their owners
to attach mufflers.

It would seem easy, therefore, to get a rooster to crow
in a picture. We tried it once, and for the purpose se-
cured a great big black Minorca, that was famous among
fowl for his Caruso-like accomplishments. The scene
was in a graveyard, and we had Mr. Chanticleer teth-
ered to a hidden peg upon the mound of a Mr. Hickey.
I was supposed to be asleep on a stone slab, like a re-
cumbent queen in Westminster Abbey. As the cock
crowed I was to arise, wipe my eyes, and rush out of
the cemetery in horrified abandon.

We got an early start — about 8 a. m. — and when every-
thing was set I took to my granite couch and waited —
and waited — and waited. The director tried everything
from food to fright, but that darned rooster just strut-
ted up and down over the late Mr. Hickey and never
piped a note.

I wish I could make this account as long as my mor-
tuary vigil, and then perhaps you would understand why
I feel so strongly on the subject.

Several times during the day the handsome thing
preened himself and, after taking a fine long breath
and tossing his head heavenward, went through the first
motions of a call to arms — ^but that was all. His tem-
perament always choked him back into silence.

At exactly 4:15 he looked over at my pained and
haggard figure, lying as in death, and feeling that he
had something to crow about uncorked a rough and rau-
cous song that could be heard in Hollywood, making

THE MOVIE QUEEN 87

with it all the accompanying gestures. Since that day
I have been laying for the rooster-minded men who
get off that old bromidiocy about the temperamental
ladies of the stage.

SECRETS OF THE TOILET

If my male readers who have followed this story will
now please stand aside for a few minutes I will take
the ladies gently by the hand and lead them to our
dressing-rooms. Men are excluded, and of course no
gentleman will peek.

In this room what do you think the negro maid is
doing to that young lady standing like Diana at her
bath? She is giving her a nice, thick, gooey coat of
olive oil, for she is sentenced to do tank stuff — a castle
moat, I believe — and will probably have to stay in the
water all morning. And that character woman over
there is being upholstered in anticipation of a shock-
ing bump from a jitney. Those two young ladies who
are having their torsos laced up in stout, corset-cover-
like bodices are preparing for a violent quarrel in a
cigarette factory. If they were not thus incased be-
neath their shabby dresses, their clothes would be unable
to contain them, and the scene would be censored out.
The undergarments of many of the others, you will no-
tice, are not such as are advertised in the daily papers,
for our needs are peculiar, and we have to be prepared
for all sorts of bizarre adventures.

These surroundings are luxurious, however, compared
with the inconvenience we have to endure when out on
location. Talk about dressing in a Pullman sleeper!
Imagine the privacy of a jitney or the "lee'ard" side of

88 FILM FOLK

a sagebush on the desert. True, some of us have motor-
cars rigged up like traveling minstrels, but often we
have to shift where no motor-car can go. I have had to
make a complete change in two feet of snow behind the
doubtful shelter of a sugar-pine up in Bear Valley. To
hang a mirror in a manzanita bush and make up in a
blizzard is indeed earning one's salary in the most
cold-blooded way.

I'll never forget the amazement of a forest-ranger in
the Sierras when he rode into our location and in all
directions could see men and women hiding behind trees.
He thought a stage had been robbed ; that the highway-
men had taken even the clothes of the passengers, and
that we were only waiting for the cover of night so that
we could crawl shamefully back to civilization. "We
develop some situations that are funnier than any you
see on the screen, but I 'm afraid the censors might be a
bit squeamish about releasing them.

HOW WTARDEOBES EMPTY THE PAY ENVELOPES

Now, gentlemen, you may rejoin us. You will not
be particularly interested in our wardrobes, except in
a fiscal way, but this factor ought to supply the shock
you have just missed.

Before I reveal this sartorial heaven to the ladies —
the men trailing behind — ^permit me to make one or
two observations. When you hear of the salaries that
some of us get, you no doubt think that our greatest
sport is to go down and laugh at the mint. But I as-
sure you our expenses are quite as alarming as our
pay, especially if you consider the girls who play straight
leads.

THE MOVIE QUEEN 89

An automobile has come to be a necessity ; a maid or a
seamstress indispensable; daily subscriptions or chari-
table touches amount often to as much as twenty-five
dollars a week. Photographic bills are outrageous ; then
we have to pay for our own gowns iu everything except
costume plays.

A girl starting in often has to spend her first six
months' salary accumulating wardrobe necessities. The
gowns for one five-reel story cost Agnes Underbill nearly
fifteen hundred dollars. And the tragic part of it is
that they are useless for further picture purposes.

Just as the studios find it cheaper to rent furniture, so
that the sets will always be new, so, too, the directors de-
mand that each new story have its own gowns. And
such memories as these men have! Don't ever again
tell me that the male sees only the face. These uncanny
men have the crudest memory for feathers, fine or faded
If you try to ring in the simplest hat that you wore two
years ago, they will spot it a mUe away.

The wardrobe of a comedienne is not particularly ex-
citing, so I shall take you in to see the glorious raiment
and the many little coquetries of Agnes Underbill. No,
this is not a store, nor are these the gowns for a whole
cast. That last ease contains only the dresses she wore in
The Do-Nothing. She cannot wear them again and
she cannot make them over — ^we call it taking them down
— until the picture is released in New York. This ties
up a fearful lot of money, yet it is essential to "keep
them on ice" against the possibility of a make-over.
For if the big fish or the censors order a retake of a
certain scene, we must be prepared, and it can easily be
seen how difficult it would be to rebuild a gown after

90 FILM FOLK

it had been taken down and perhaps merged into several
new ones. The slightest change might be fatal to the
picture. These slips are most likely to occur when scenes
are made days apart, or when a make-over is ordered a
month after the original scene was made.

Suppose, for instance, that I was making a scene
Saturday morning, and rain or something else compelled
us to abandon the finish of it until Monday. Suppose
that Monday I put on canvas shoes, forgetting that I had
worn black shoes Saturday. This is what would hap-
pen when you looked at the finished picture: You
would see me — picture made on Saturday — jump up
from my chair, grab a revolver, dash out of the front
door, and shoot a book agent. Returning with a smok-
ing revolver — picture made on Monday — ^you would be-
hold a pair of shoes turned white, simply because I had
shot a book agent ! Nobody could convince the amazed
audience that such things happen in real life, especially
as the shootiag of a book agent has never been con-
sidered bad form among nice people.

This hypothetical case is not stated to be humor-
ous, for slips of this kind are constantly happen-
ing. A man wiU enter a telephone booth in a gray
coat and come out in a black one. Hortense might
be on her deathbed, and while a three-foot title
was spliced into the film some one might have changed
the carpet on the floor or even raised the ceiling. In-
deed, so difficult is it to carry over the minutiae of the
mise en scene that, unless it is absolutely impossible to do
so, all scenes in the same location are made at one time.

To emphasize the great care that must be exercised in
order that the sequence of scenes may not be made

THE MOVIE QUEEN 91

ridiculous by too sudden a change, I must tell of an in-
cident I witnessed the other day when Gene Wilkinson
was doing one of her famous stunts with the cats. It
was necessary for her to sneak up behind a small, sleep-
ing tiger and hold it at arm's length by the skin of its
neck — a very dangerous performance. After a great
deal of preliminary care she accomplished the picture,
and the director called for a close-up of the scene.
"While the camera man was moving his machine Gene re-
leased the beast, because of his weight, and when she
picked him up again a great argument arose as to
whether, in the first picture, she had held him with the
right or the left hand at his neck. In order to be sure,
two pictures were taken, one with the squirming beast in
the right, the other with him in the left hand. They will
use only the one that corresponds to the first film.

WHEN WHITE IS YELLOW OR BLUE

So one can see that it would be unsafe to take down a
gown until the final release of the picture. However,
there are a few studios that have introduced a regular
department of dressmaking, with a high-priced designer
of gowns in charge, and thus they are assuming the ex-
pense of owning a wardrobe, with satisfactory results
to themselves. These dressmakers seek out the best
models at the spring and autumn fashion-shows and copy
a two-hundred-dollar gown with fifty dollars' worth of
material, each garment being so built that it is easy to
take down after the release has come. The material, of
course, can be used again.

The men of the pictures own a complete wardrobe —
evening clothes, dinner coats, morning coats, tweeds,

92 FILM FOLK

and riding breeches. Their linen is usually yellow, but
not always, and this reminds me of another of our
crosses — ^the color eccentricities of the camera man. If
there were any fixed chromatic formula, it would be easy;
but one fellow insists that all white be reduced to a cer-
tain yellow, while another one has a different tone.
Some, indeed, demand a blue; then everything from
shirts to feather boas must be dyed to suit him.
Often what one believes to be a gorgeous gown gets
thumbs-down from the camera man. Even the di-
rector has to acquiesce, or otherwise become responsible
for the photography — and directors have enough re-
sponsibilities without assuming foreign ones.

In the pictures the actinic value of various colors
changes the technie of make-up used in the stage drama.
Much depends upon the location and the atmospheric
condition of the light. At the beaches and on the desert,
because of the intense whiteness of the sand, a very
light make-up is used; otherwise the faces would ap-
pear too swarthy. For ordinary studio purposes the
women use a number five and the men a number six
grease-paint. Blondes use a light Japanese make-up.
Because their high lights are much hotter than those of
brunettes, red-haired girls always photograph very dark.
Rouge is not used because the photographic value, being
dark, makes shadows rather than color on the cheeks.

Practically everybody, except little children and one
or two girls who happen to have magnificent skins, has
to use grease-paint. This is due to the close-up. When
one 's face is enlarged on the screen to the size of a mov-
ing-van, even apparently smooth skin looks like a plowed
field with spring wheat just emerging.

THE MOVIE QUEEN 93

Everybody is supposed to report at the studio at 8 :30
o'clock in the morning in make-up, and, unless released,
must remain there thus glorified all day. The necessity
of this daylight use of calcimine has some very curious
consequences. A seven-passenger car with twelve occu-
pants in fuU evening dress, and all made up like
"shameless jades," goes right through the shopping
district at ten a. m. on the way to some location. Is
it any wonder that a lot of people think we spend our
nights carousing at the beaches, and that certain min-
isters are in a constant state of turmoil over our scram-
bled morals? However, most of us have become im-
mune to these attacks, and we go nonchalantly about our
work without the slightest sense of shame.

EEAL TEAES POK FUSST DIRECTORS

If, however, we are making a street scene and do
not wish to attract attention, the camera is hidden in a
motor-van and our make-up is very carefully done.
One time, while doing a boy's part, I was standing in
front of a bank building when a man called to me to
crank his car. I did so, and as I stepped up to ac-
cept the ten cents he handed me I saw that he was look-
ing into my face with chagrin. I knew who he was and
he recognized me. His embarrassment was expressed
by beating it away four bells ahead.

Every profession has its disagreeable duties, and one
of ours is to work under the studio lights. Every actress
dreads them, for they are simply cruel to the eyes, and
to work within a few feet of eight or ten ghastly, hissing,
flaming arcs will unnerve the strongest of us. The red
rays are entirely absent in these awful things, the conse-

94 FILM FOLK

quence being that when they are used, ever3i;hing in the
scene is bathed in a sickly, bluish green. Faces appear
ashen gray and the red of one's lips looks purple. The
actors appear like uncanny corpses suddenly come to
life. The light is so dreadful to the eyes that the least
result is a splitting headache, and the worst, the neces-
sity of seeking the solace of an oculist or of wearing
amber glasses for several days.

Speaking of eyes reminds me that we have one emo-
tional stunt that puts it all over the legitimate stage,
and that is the registering of real tears. Even if the
emotional actress can turn on the tears, only those in
front would ever see them; but we have the advantage
of the close-up. Of course the usual way to produce
them is to smell an onion concealed in a handkerchief, or
in the shirt front of the lover — in case the sorrowful
lady has to weep on his manly chest. The onion, how-
ever, will not have the same lugubrious consequence with
everyone.

These immunes must either sit and look at the sun
until their eyes run, or use a little boric acid and oil
with an eye-dropper. But the onion produces the most
Madonna-like tears and is by far the most popular
method of producing the dolorosa effect.

However, artificial tears are not allowed by some di-
rectors, and they resort to all sorts of devices to cause
real ones to flow. The process is called "pumping."
A few days ago one of these chaps tried in vain to work
up the emotion of a young girl so that she would shed
tears of hate at the man in the plot. When he had
struggled for twenty minutes, he turned on her in con-
tempt and indignation:

THE MOVIE QUEEN 95

"You are the worst actress I ever saw. You 've got
about as much temperament as an ice-man. I 'm going
to get this scene, and I 'm going to have Blanche Har-
vey" — ^he knew their enmity — "make it."

Then came the flood ; and while the girl was mad clean
through, the director got a close-up of the most in-
dignant tears that ever leaked from pretty eyes. Per-
haps the trick won't work again.

One of the few women directors in the business insists
that tears shall be real. I saw her work over a girl for
half an hour, while she went through the whole story,
acting every part. The girl finally lay down upon a
couch, and the director knelt beside her and pounded
away. What she said I do not know, but the girl cried
all right, and furthermore she had to be carried to her
dressing-room in downright hysterics. If the realism
that demands our suffering the actual pains of our
heroines is carried much farther, it will some day ex-
hibit a tender young girl permitting a lion to bite her
ear off— just for the sake of the picture ! You can get
people to do almost anything if you will pay them well
enough.

TWINKLE, TWINKLE

Astronomically speaking, the firmament of filmdom is
occupied by fixed stars— those who are permanently em-
ployed in the moving-pictures ; the comets of the stage,
who temporarily leave their orbits, and, acting for a
few weeks or months, return whence they came ; and the
burned-out old moons, whose effulgence is a reflection of
past glories. The comets are the most spectacular and
perhaps the best known, and for their short stay make
stupendous sums.

96 FILM FOLK

Besides the fabulous salaries paid them, they are often
provided with private cars, furnished bungalows or man-
sions, fully equipped with servants, and motor-cars,
grand pianos and other household pets. The dressing-
rooms of some of these pampered ones would make
Count d'Orsay feel like a plumber. They have ivory
toilet-sets, great mirrors, "hot and cold folding-doors,"
and every little frill to delight the feminine heart.

Are we jealous ? Oh dear, no ! Their pay checks are
bigger, but ours come oftener!

Now that most of the studios are cutting out the one-
reeler and going in for the five to eight reel feature stuff,
we are drawing more and more of the stage stars to the
pictures. Some of the less thoughtful of the film favor-
ites deplore the competition, but many of us believe
the capitulation of the legitimate stars is a great boost
to our business. Every year adds to the dignity and
artistry of the film drama, and in that we all profit.
Even in my work, starting out as a sort of female
Charlie Chaplin, subjecting myself to all the grotesque
clownishness of the slapstick and spit-curls, I find my-
self at last cast in comedy dramas that call for some-
thing approximating intelligence and offer a chance
for more subtle comedy than cyclone and cataclysm.

Studio life is not exactly what most outsiders think,
for I believe it is generally supposed that we are on the
jump from morning to night. The fact is, our per-
sonal excitements are few indeed, and four hours of
actual work is quite a full day. It is true that those
in stock must report in make-up by 8 :30 ; but that does
not necessarily mean that work begins at that hour.
There are many factors that determine the time of taking

r^'

i\

■^^tH^-':'

The make-up man at Universal Studios

THE MOVIE QUEEN 97

a scene : the light, the position of the sun, a scenic ex-
periment, the temperament of the director, and many
other things. Any or all of them may drag out the
waiting for half a day or more, yet the company must
be ready to go out at any moment. Then one may be
east in a part that will not be staged until the next week,
yet he must stay on the lot, though he does not need
to make up. The stars are privileged to stay away when
not working, though they must telephone the studio ev-
ery morning and evening and leave word where they
can be found between times. And, of course, the stars
have more to do outside, for they are constantly attend-
ing the dressmakers' and milliners'.

LEISUEE BETWEEN SCENES

But for the rank and file there are sometimes days
on end when they do no acting at all. It is interesting
to see how the actors employ their leisure — a problem
which becomes more important in this profession than
in any other. I hasten to say that the women use their
time to much more purpose than the men; the majority
of them sew, embroider, knit, or mend. They sit
round in little groups, as intently interested as any al-
truistic church sewing-circle knitting bands for Bel-
gian babies. Indeed, one English actress at our studio
has knitted hundreds of pairs of socks for her soldier
boys. Another, a socialist German girl, also knits, and,
as she has no way of getting her work to Germany, she
sends it with the English girl's. I only wish the poya
who get the socks could know !

Horrified uplifters, whom our morals are constantly
concerning, would feel very much chagrined if they

98 FILM FOLK

could investigate a studio on a dull day. Some of the
women read a great deal, not only the movie dope and
papers, but good stuff. A young college girl at the
studio has installed her library, and rents her books to
the others for ten cents a week. "With the proceeds she
adds to her library.

Although the men for the most part just loaf round,
smoke, and read the movie magazine, there are occa-
sional book-lovers, and always a few who like to work
with their hands. One chap here spends all his time
modeling in clay; another in learning scene-painting;
one studies Spanish; and another, an American boy
brought up in Mexico, has built a theater of marionettes.

Of course there are eccentric individuals who will not
mix at all with the 'others. One girl, with evidently
enough money to be independent of her job, — she is an
extra, and sometimes makes nothing for a week or two, —
spends most of her time reading in her dressing-room.
Another youngster, with no more talent than a rabbit,
but with the artistic temperament of a psychic seeress,
moons round all day looking at the hills. Her firm be-
lief in her art is perfectly beautiful. She is the daughter
of a large stockholder, but even her pull never seems to
penetrate the prejudices of the many directors. One
very daring fellow cast her for the role of a maid-servant
in a cafeteria scene ; she played the part like the wronged
lady in "East Lynne."

Besides the actresses, there are carpenters, scene-paint-
ers, costumers, property men, developers, printers, ship-
pers, splicers, chauffeurs, and numberless other crafts-
men and functionaries who make up the life of our city.
The developers, curiously enough, are nearly all Rus-

THE MOVIE QUEEN 99

sians. The girls who do the splicing and trimming of
the films work eight hours, as factory laws in Cali-
fornia limit their day to that time, and it is rather in-
teresting to note that very few of them care a,ny-
thing about the acting part of the business.

I know I have spoiled a very vivacious conception of
our lives by indicating a certain amount of tiresome
loafing and routine work, yet every week we have visitors
who enliven our interests. The thousands of travelers
coming West want to visit the studios; but if we per-
mitted all of them to come in, we would never be able
to get any work done. However, important people are
usually shown about, an event which adds as much to
our entertainment as to theirs. One day it will be Edi-
son, another Bryan, Dooley, or Debs.

At the risk of spoiling the visit of several of our most
distinguished guests, I must tell a studio joke. Some-
times when we get word that a Big Fellow is coming it
so happens that most of the companies are out on loca-
tion and there is nothing doing on the big stage. It
would be ungracious and bad business to disappoint Im-
portance, so the scene fellows are ordered to throw up
any old set and then, by grabbing off a few idle actors
round the lot, a director puts them through a scene with
all the care and unction he would practice on a feature
story. Everything is so arranged that when the great
man arrives, and they crank away for fifteen minutes,
he doesn't know that it is only an empty camera grind-
ing a lot of old dead film. It all looks real enough, and
the visitor goes away quite excited because he has seen
a film made.
Perhaps it has been noticed that I am pretty strong

100 FILM FOLK

for my sex, but to one emphatic point of Spencer Gran-
don's I '11 have to agree; girls are more dippy than boys
over their favorites. Even the women get far more let-
ters from girls than from film-mad boys. Agnes re-
ceives quantities of the same kind of gush that we our-
selves wrote only five years ago. I get my share, but
mostly from girls who imitate a certain gown and coif
I have committed, and have won prizes for their sins.
Thpse letters often contain clippings telling how Willie
Whistlewood won the boys' first prize for his imitation
of Charlie Chaplin; and how Kitty Gargoyles won the
girls' prize for her inimitable imitation of May Chapin.
And will I please send her a signed photograph?

THE PHOTOGRAPH PESTS

These letters form only a small part of our daily mail.
Out of the pathos, ignorance, vanity, or sheer banality
of our epistolary bombardment we occasionally get a
whiff of fresh air. I have corresponded now for a year
with a chap who wrote me first from England. It was a
fine, straightforward letter of appreciation, nothing fresh
or sentimental, and no requests. Since he first wrote he
has gone to the trenches, and the letters I have had from
him beat all the press stories I have read. After the
war, he says, he is coming over. I don't know whether I
am glad or not.

Even for letters we feel we must answer the postage
is rather staggering, yet it is nothing compared with the
cost of sending photographs to our admirers. When I
say that Agnes Underbill 's bill at the photographer's
for one month was close to a hundred and fifty dollars,

THE MOVIE QUEEN 101

it will be seen that we have to pay a pretty stiff price
for this kind of flattery. Last summer some of the girls
I knew at school told me it had become a regular prac-
tice for school-girls to write to film favorites of both
sexes, asking for photographs. I learned that they had
not the slightest interest in many of us, but liked to see
who could get the most pictures. They plaster their
walls with them, just as my kid brother does with pen-
nants ; and to cover their silly boudoirs we are expected
to furnish the paper, at the rate of fifty or more dollars a
month. Since then I have thought of a beautiful-look-
ing boomerang by which, in time, I hope to recoup my
dissipated fortunes. When I receive such a request now,
I mail the devotee a printed post-card reading thus :

Dea^ Miss:' I wish to thank you for your very cordial words.
I shall be glad to send you a beautiful signed photograph if you
will send me fifty cents in stamps and an addressed and stamped
mailing tube twelve inches long. I am forced to ask this, as I
receive hundreds of similar requests from thoughtless admirers.

Sincerely yours,

Mat Chapin.

The number who do not reply is positively insulting,
yet there are enough of them who do to bring me in about
ten dollars a month. I get the photographs for twenty-
five cents apiece. Now that I am actually selling my
pictures, if I can only sell this story of my life I '11 be
in the same class as the Pat Lady and the Sword Swal-
lower. In order to disarm a blow I see coming, I wish to
add that I put all my photographic profits into a fund
to pay constant studio assessments. So if ever you feel
stung at handing over fifty cents in payment for my

102 FILM rOLK

vivacious frontispiece, remember that you are probably
assisting in curing the measles of some poor camera-
man's kids.

GOOD PEOPLE WHO WORK HARD

The real truth of the matter is that, although we
receive an occasional thrill, most of these alleged ad-
mirers are downright pests. In any event, they compel
us to have our telephones recorded under fictitious names,
and we give our numbers only to the studio and to our
friends. At the studio we are absolutely protected.
We are "not there."

You see, most of these admirers do not love us nearly
so ardently as they love our jobs. Nine out of ten want
to break into the pictures, and they will do the most
amazing things to call attention to themselves. I first
thought ambition and vanity were the impelling forces
behind this army of girls who wanted to act ; and I fear
I was not as charitable in my views as I am now. Mrs.
Grandon set me right. She* says that many girls who
work live very gray lives. The pay is usually low, and
there is not much joyousness in their daily grind. The
salaries of even our lesser lights seem dreamlike to them,
and the life appears so fuU of sparkle and joy that it is
not unnatural that they should seek it out. They see
one of us at an automobile show, and learn that we were
given a white-and-gold fairy chariot for simply sitting
in it for several nights ; and thereafter they think of us
as always in deep cushions. Our lives are not as soft as
they imagine; but no doubt, even at their worst, they
are heavenly compared to theirs.

Thus we find a perfect army of young girls, and some

THE MOVIE QUEEN 103

not so young, knocking at the gate. Is it any wonder,
then, that some youngster hooks up with a camera-kid
or scene-painter; for has not this exalted person the key
to fairyland? Perhaps he can get her in. The uplifters
are front-pagely concerned with the "price she paid" to
get a job; but Mrs. Grandon, who has no elaborate
respect for our profession, though Spencer is one of the
leaders, says that as men and women go, we are neither
better nor worse than the rest of them. She suggests
that it would be more to the point to find out why so
many girls are unhappy in their jobs. One would think,
to read the papers, that we were the most shameless
creatures ia the world; but my dad, who motor-copped
for years on the beach boulevards, says that the movie
people are pretty decent compared to a lot of "respect-
able business men" who go to the beaches and come
home lit up like battleships.

I started this story by saying that I was the daughter
of a motor-cop. I am now the daughter of an avocado
rancher, which is some social and horticultural distinc-
tion, for, as Dad says, only Swedes and Irishmen can
make avocados grow. Motor-copping was exciting, but
it would hardly do after little May landed on the dotted
line for a hundred a week. I loaned Dad enough to
become one of these "little landers"; and what he has
done in five years to those four acres near Hollywood
should make every other motor-cop ashamed to meet his
Judge. I forgot to state that avocados are alligator
pears, and even out here they sell for twenty-five cents
apiece.

Agnes has just come from the post-office — ^we have our
own substation on the lot — and among my letters there is

104 FILM FOLK

one from my soldier correspondent. I '11 quote part
of it.

M't deab May: . . . I aju convalescing in a beautiful little
hospital in the south of France. We hear little of the war, as
they believe all excitement should be kept from us. Everything
is done for our comfort and entertainment. We have had a
cinema installed, and last night my heart nearly stopped when
the title of the first picture proclaimed a three-reel comedy, with
you as the feature. . . .

I used to have a rather contemptuous opinion of comedians
and clowns, but having witnessed the tragedy of the ages, I feel
now that anybody who contributes in any way to the sum total
of human happiness is fulfilling a holy mission. . . .

I shall never be able to return to the front, so have made up
my mind that as soon as I am able to I shall go to the States.
I have an uncle living in Santa Monica.

I wish I could fill in the omissions ; maybe I '11 read
some of them to Agnes, but they are too personal for
public contemplation. In a postscript he compares his
present life of calm and comfort to the dangers of mine ;
which suggests that I must get on with my tale.

Our lives have their dangers, it is true, but it is not
always the most advertised Hazardous Hannah who takes
the greatest risks. Some of the professional thrillers
have very ingenious ways of side-stepping real danger.
One of them, whose reputation rests upon her thrilling
railroad stunts, suffered a vicarious accident a short time
ago that let an amused public in on her technic. The
early editions of the papers told how Hannah Hearth-
stone, of the Headlight Film Company, had been pain-
fully injured in attempting to jump from a railroad
bridge to the top of a moving train. A later edition dis-
closed the fact that the accident had not befallen Hannah

THE MOVIE QUEEN 105

but a female impersonator, who doubled with her in all
her dangerous scenes. Even at that, this girl does
enough rough stuff to demand a fat salary.

My comedy roles do not often call for real danger, but
nevertheless I have had a few adventures that had much
verve. In my sprightly young life I have been in a
storm at sea, have ridden a "ship of the desert," have
gone forty miles an hour on a flat tire, and have dreamed
that I was falling off the Woolworth Building. But I
ask you, Madge, did you ever ride an ostrich? The
aforesaid sensations are absolutely flat and static in com-
parison.

DOLNG AN OSTRICH STUNT

We had a director who very foolishly ordered a lot
of South African scenarios, because he thought ostriches
would make such "bully local color" for the scenes.
But he had not spoken to the ostriches about it. Had
he done so, he would have learned that the biggest bird
in the world has a set of ingrowing brains. It is hard to
believe that any creature could be so stupid, and live.
About the only real intelligence it manifests is that the
male sits on the eggs ; in that ostriches are superhuman.

I shall not attempt more than to indicate my thrills,
but if any of my readers saw the exhibition of the Italian
Futurists at the San Francisco Fair they will under-
stand. Those pictures exactly record my feelings, but
are much more definite and objective than anything the
camera man got. The laboratory reported three feet of
blurred film ! A half a mile in three feet !

The day on which I made my snappy little ride was
replete with excitement. "We had gone 'way out to San

106 FILM FOLK

Jacinto, where there is a great farm of six hundred
acres and more than a thousand birds. We arrived early
in the morning to see the dancing, and, if possible, to get
a picture. Ostriches always begin their day with the
most amazing waltzing by the males, and while the
dancing is in progress it is not safe to go in the corral,
the males being very savage. In fact, at all times it is
necessary to carry a long stick with a pronged fork on
the end, so that if a bird makes an attack you simply hold
his neck in the fork, at arm's length, and the poor simp
is absolutely helpless. Another safeguard against his
attacks is to fall prone on the ground, and then the
bird kicks right over his prey and misses it by a foot.

After the dance, armed with forks and instructions, we
all ventured ia. The scene was easy enough : The birds,
to be observed in the background of the picture, were
simply driven by in great battalions. Ned Quigley, a
big, fat comedian, became so nervous that it was only by
the utmost pleading and joshing that we could keep him
in the corral long enough to make the picture.

"I can't handle this 'ere tool, and if I should lie
down, the darned thing would get me from any quar-
ter," he cried. And that, no doubt, was true. For
from pole to pole and round Ned's equator it was about
fifty-fifty.

Far be it from me to detract one little bit from the
glory of animal actors. I know that some of their acts
are dangerous ; but that does not mean that all of them
are. I myself have appeared with a lion — a real, great,
big, hairy brute, too — and he was just about as ferocious
as a Canton-flannel dog.

We once employed three brothers who have brought up

THE MOVIE QUEEN 107

a lion from cubhood on boiled milk and blanc-mange,
and the only danger from the great beast was that he
might knock you down if he heard the milkman. We
used him in an alleged comedy, wherein his part was to
jump from a balcony into the lobby of a hotel and scatter
the inmates in all directions.

It was the hardest and longest scene I have ever made,
for poor old Leo was so friendly that he absolutely
refused to program. One of the brothers, disguised as a
hotel clerk, was supposed to be treed in a telephone
booth, with the lion waiting just outside to eat him up.
"While he held the receiver he shook like an aspen leaf,
but instead of calling the police, he was shouting :

"Come here, Leo, old chap! Come here! Come on,
old top ! For the love of Mike, somebody slip me a lump
of sugar! Come here, you darned old cat, or I '11 beat
your bloomin' head off!"

At last the king of the jungle recognized his friend
and keeper, and came over and sniffed at the door; and
while the clerk was acting his fearful agony, he was kick-
ing sugar under the door to the happy and smiling lion.
The only casualty suffered was that I had some of the
grease-paint licked off my chin by what felt like a file.
You see the animal stuff isn't rough, if the animal has
been brought up nicely.

THEILLEKS OP SNOW AND SEA

One must admit that wild beasts make the most thrill-
ing pictures; but, after all, the actors are hedged about
by every known protection, and in time some of them
become as care-free as the trainers themselves. There
are other adventures, however, which though they may

108 FILM FOLK

not seem to the casual observer as dangerous as the cats,
require even a firmer courage. The same Gene Wilkin-
son, of whom Spencer Grandon spoke, played with the
cats successfully for five years, and then nearly lost her
life last summer in a shipwreck story at San Pedro.

She was tied to a spar and was being washed ashore,
carrying a little tot of five in her arms. Suddenly the
spar turned completely over, submerging both woman
and child. The ropes, which had been arranged to untie
easily, became swollen with the water, and Gene was held
fast. She had sense enough to let the child go, and it
was picked up when it rose to the top ; but the men had
great difficulty in getting Gene loose. The chap who ac-
complished it, an extra man, stayed under water for a
full minute before he got her unfastened. A pulmotor
was used on both of them.

A near-tragic comedy happened up in the Sierras last
year when Barryworth and Bessie Creighton were
making an Alaskan story. Bessie had to shoot a very
dangerous rapids in one of those heavy Northern canoes.
Barryworth, who was playing lead, was also directing,
shouting directions from the bank. As the canoe
rounded a very dangerous curve it overturned, throwing
Bessie into the freezing water. First she was up and
then under, but struggling heroically to reach a place of
safety. It so happened that there was a bunch of Yo-
semite. tourists watching the scene from the opposite
bank, and when Barryworth shouted to them to save the
canoe, they all wanted to "lynch the brute!"

However, they did n't know what he knew. That was
that Bessie Creighton would tackle Niagara Falls and
likely get away with it, but there was only one canoe

THE MOVIE QUEEN 109

like that in the Sierras, and he had to have it. Sure
enough, Bessie came up the trail a little later, cold but
smiling. Another fine young job framed up for this
pampered pet with the big salary was to tunnel into a
snowdrift and, after pokiug a bare arm and hand up
through the snow, to remain there for fully twenty
minutes while Barryworth fought off a pack of wolves.

I should like to ask how many people would like to
"walk the plank" on a pirate ship, and step off into
thirty feet of weather before striking sixty feet of water
— supposing, of course, that they were blindfolded and
had their hands tied ? Yet I saw thirty men and women
walk the plank far out at sea, and many of them could
not swim and had to be rescued almost as soon as they
struck the water.

Oh dear, no! Our lives are not all caramels and
limousines !

It is the pleasure and expectation of all feminine
writers to utter words of advice and comfort to their
sisters, and I now propose to unload mine, knowing per-
fectly well that not one of you will pay the slightest
attention to them. If you wish to become a movie queen
do not seek your crown via any of the get-there-quick
schemes advertised by the quack doctors of the film
drama. I have met but one girl who presented such
credentials, and she couldn't have been kept out by all
the fakers combined. This does not mean that a good
dramatic school is useless, for, on the contrary, film work
has reached that point where it is almost hopeless to
break in unless one has had dramatic experience of some
kind. When the business was new, and growing by
leaps and bounds, all sorts of people were acceptable;

110 FILM POLK

but now our forces are largely recruited from the legiti-
mate stage. Directors simply haven't the time to train
beginners. So first of all try to learn the rudiments of
dramatic expression.

Next, get some good camera man to tell you the truth
about your face. Some of the prettiest girls in the
world will be frosts on the film, and vice versa. A bad
complexion can be altered and is no handicap ; but form
is the great necessity. You may be the chorus-girl type,
or you may have the boyish figure of Peter Pan, or the
heroic proportions of the Statue of Liberty; but what-
ever type you represent, you should approach perfection.
Knock-knees and bow-legs and crossed eyes and cow-
licks are not profitable in the picture business, unless for
character work.

Good teeth are absolutely essential and dimples are
priceless.

One must be prepared to mix with all sorts of people —
good, bad, and stupid. The life is at least vivacious, and
temptations are great enough so that, if one does not wish
to "fall by the Wayside," it is a pretty good idea to have
more brains above the ears than below — or, select a
motor-cop for your dad.

I have often wondered if there is any other life I
should enjoy more — a domestic role, for instance, under
the direction of a soldier boy. This movie stuff is fun
enough, but it is full of turmoil. It is surprising how
much we enjoy our vacations, and still more surprising
what we do with them. Most of us go home and just
loaf and cook and tend babies, or any other of the homely
stunts that many of the girls who write to me are trying
to side-step.

THE MOVIE QUEEN 111

One of the strongest cards that "he" has played in
our queer long-distance game is to make it clear that he
does not care to be an actor. In fact, he thinks he pre-
fers his profession of architecture. "Wouldn't it be
awful, though, if after a few years of domestic quiet my
old tumultuous instincts should reawaken and I should
begin to throw dishes at him ? Even his training in the
trenches could not survive my superior technic.

However, as Mrs. Grandon says: "All our lives are
moving-pictures, and our success, on or off the stage,
depends a lot upon the sort of director we sign up with. ' '

Ill

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR

(THE ANGLE OF THE CAMERA MAN)

NOW I know why philosophers have always sought
the solitude of the cell, the cloister, or the hospice,
in which to contemplate a nervous world. For six weeks
I have lain upon my fair young back and looked at four
chaste and beautiful white walls, not a picture or a
drape to distract my thoughts.

The result of this period of reflection has been that in
the long stretches of the day and night I have had time
to gain a perspective on my very tumultuous life. I
"had 'er in the high" so long that I really didn't know
what leisure was until I struck this heavenly place. If
I had realized what rest for the spirit lay vrithin the anti-
septic walls of the Good Samaritan, I should have been
lots less careful of my human chassis.

The cause of my taking to the cloistered life must be
told later; but meantime here I am, with two broken
legs and a split collar-bone. Also, I have had a fine new
set of open plumbing put in and a couple of loose teeth
taken out. Altogether I 'm not what would be called a
physical success, but fortunately my sconce was not
cracked ; so I still may not be utterly useless. A man can
stand quite a while on his head when his legs are gone.

After the operation and consequent pain and discom-

112

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 113

fort of the first few days, I enjoyed the enforced rest of
the succeeding three weeks; but that was about all my
nervous disposition could stand, and I began to irk at the
deadly stillness. I wanted to be up and out and at it.

I have seen nobody except Mrs. Goodhue, the human
plumber, and the white-frocked angel of mercy who min-
isters to my physical wants, and it is Mrs. Goodhue who
is responsible for my writing the following tale; it was
through her urging that I have undertaken it. "For,"
as she says, "the film favorite and movie queen have
told their stories; and, though occasionally somebody
may wonder where the camera was in some exciting scene,
nobody has yet recounted the Vicissitudes of Victor, the
boy who turns the crank. And they are infinitely more
exciting than anything that happens to our pampered
pets in the headlines."

Artists, they say, are born; business men are made;
but camera men just happen. When the picture busi-
ness was new, and growing by leaps and bounds, it was
impossible that enough cinematographers should come
from the ranks ; so they were recruited from all walks of
life. If I should take the first fifty of these chaps who
come to mind, we should find that their previous experi-
ence included everything from undertaking to cowboy-
ing; but nowadays men are going through a regular
training as laboratory men and as camera assistants.
"When I broke into the game this source was inadequate
to supply the demand.

I once knew a f ellow' who studied for the ministry, but
is now driving a beer-truck. My family had me all
framed up for the law, but the gods intervened and de-
cided that such a life was much too sedentary. As a

114 FILM POLK

high-school boy I built a motorcycle, the engine of which
finally achieved the motive power of a pushmobile ; and
in this miniature racer I entered all the junior contests.
I thus got a taste for speed.

After two years of law. at the university I finally threw
legal fame to the winds and, greatly to my family's dis-
tress, went to work as a salesman and demonstrator for
one of the best-known automobiles. In a year or so I
went into the racing game as a driver for the same car.
After a few local successes, the Detroit factory sent me
all over the country, until I became known as one of the
most successful racing drivers in America.

Meantime I married, and right away Mrs. Goodhue
urged me to quit racing. The dangers were a constant
threat to her peace of mind, and for a week before a race
she would be fearfully upset. She was obsessed by all
sorts of visions of her Victor boy scattered over the land-
scape or distributed throughout the grand stand ; for she
seemed to think that all racing drivers were doomed to
death. The joke of it is there are several of us who
haven't been killed.

THE WILES OF THE TEMPTEK

But finally I succumbed to her point of view, and we
decided that the Vanderbilt race at Santa Monica in
19 — should be my last. I was to quit and go back into
the sales department. Well, that classic event decided
my future all right, but not in the way we had antici-
pated. All in a bunch, I was leading on the next to the
last lap of the three-hundred-mile race when my tire
blew out 'way over by the Soldiers' Home. By the time
I had limped round to the grand stand I was hopelessly

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 115

beaten. With this depressing knowledge I drove slowly
toward the pits; and as I did so, who should come run-
ning out on the track but a bunch of alleged comedians
from a well-known film company, getting comedy race
stuff.

When they saw me limping in, covered with dust and
oil, they began to act like crazy people. The director
hurried up and said, inasmuch as I was out of the race,
wouldn't I get in the picture for just a few moments?
Not caring particularly one way or the other, I ac-
quiesced, and these idiots began to pull off the darndest
capers I have ever seen. It was evidently trick camera
stuff, for I could make neither head nor tail out of their
manoeuvers, simply obeying instructions. I learned
later, however, that the picture would show that, while
racing down the track at eighty miles an hour, I had
run over a bride and groom.

It all seemed absurd enough at the time, and I thought
no more of it ; but the next day I received a note from the
director asking me if I could not run out to the studio
to see him.

All unsuspicious of his little frame-up, I went; and
this was the song he sang :

' ' Goodhue, we are in a curious fix. We made that pic-
ture yesterday, and you are in it so prominently that we
cannot go on unless you can appear in subsequent scenes.
The stuff, so far, is bully ; but it 's all lost unless you '11
consent to come out for a week and let us finish with
you."

Inasmuch as I was out of racing and was going back
to the gentle art of selling cars, I saw no reason why I
shouldn't put in the week making pictures, especially

116 FILM FOLK

as they were going to pay me well. Mrs. Goodhue was
delighted; she thought perhaps I could break into this
new, high-salaried business, make a great success, and be
doing work that would not jeopardize my foolish bones.
I found out, however, that the boss had been stringing
me beautifully. They really did not need me to finish
the comic story; what they wanted was to make some
race pictures, in one of which I was to wreck a car going
at high speed. This was a snappy change for a man who
was trying to get out of the dangers of racing. Some
half-wit had written a scenario that had a racing driver
for the hero, and, according to the plans and specifica-
tions, I was to be the splendid boy in oilskins and goggles.

Well, it 's wonderful what a fellow will do for money.
Though my chest was caved in from medals, none had
ever been won at a beauty show. Mrs. Goodhue, when
she wished to be really flattering, said that I had a
profile like a Newfoundland cod — ^this being the hand-
somest cod that swims the sea. But after all, eyes are
the thing on the screen — ^large, liquid, romantic eyes;
and these can be made on an albino. Even an oblique
chin can be rectified.

I will not dwell at length upon my shame as an actor.
I was rotten ; that 's all that can be said and get by the
censor. But who cares about the acting in the thrillers?
I could wreck a car when utterly sober and live to tell the
tale. We don't need any Henry Irvings in the smash-up
stuff. I was leading man for about a month in heroic
race pictures, and knew that sooner or later an enraged
or an enlightened public would demand my elimination.

However, I liked the picture game ; it was exciting and
I wanted to stay. From the start the camera interested

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 117

me most, as it would any mechanic, and I spent all my
spare time fooling with one. I had even taken one home
and had taken it all apart and put it together again,
so as to know the secret of its wonderful insides.

One is often amazed at the number of chauffeurs who
have become camera men. The fact is explained in this
way: In the early days, when companies went out on
location, the driver of the car acted as assistant to the
camera man, packing the tripod, giving him focus, and
so on. Through this friendly intimacy the chauffeur
would learn to load and thread a camera, and occasion-
ally to shoot a few feet of test film.

This was exactly my experience. I learned the me-
chanics of the camera well ; the light can be learned only
through observation and experience. The time came
one day when an extra camera man was needed in an
emergency. I offered my services ; and, though the offer
was considered a joke, having little choice they let me
make a couple of scenes.

The light was not difficult, and I had learned the stops
from Mason, the camera man who had been making my
race pictures. The result was photographically good.
After shooting one or two more successful scenes, I was
signed up. Straightway I made the study of the camera
a religion ; every moment I could get away was spent in
the laboratories, watching developing, printing, and
splicing.

At this point it may be well to say that the relation
between the camera and laboratory is most intimate — or
should be to result in good work. Where the laboratories
are located miles away from the studios, there is always
friction, and each side passes the buck to the other for all

118 FILM FOLK

weak or thick films, static marks, or scratches. But
where the laboratories are on the lot, the camera man can
get daily reports on his film, with suggestions for his
lighting; each can help the other immeasurably.

NOBODY LOVES THE CAMERA MAN

"When I went home one evening and showed Mrs. Good-
hue my contract for fifty dollars a week as camera man,
she nearly exploded with delight.

"Oh, to think that at last you have given up racing
for good, and that you will not have to risk your precious
bones just to make our living ! ' '

Yes, sir ; that 's just what she said ! I was to leave
the dangers of the auto-track for the peace £md security
of simply turning a little crank !

"Well, here I am in the hospital as evidence of the grim-
ness of that joke. Peace ? Security ? "Why, automobile
racing is really like riding in a beach-chair ! There is a
mild thrill, of course, in driving a red demon at ninety
miles an hour ; but one has really never tasted speed until
he has been lashed to a platform out in front of said red
demon and has had to crank a camera carefully at the
secure and comfortable occupants behind. Thirty miles
an hour in the tonneau seems like eighty miles to the chap
astride the radiator.

Safety first? Not for the camera man. A reporter
can get together a pretty good story of a battle from
what the soldiers tell him, but to get pictures the camera
man must be right there. Then the leading man and
woman can get doubles for their dangerous stuff. Not so
with us ; we must take all our own bumps.

If I should tell the whole truth, you would think I

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 119

was laying it on strong to make a story; so I shall tell
only enough of these adventures not to strain your cred-
ulity. I regret, also, that I cannot fortify all my stories
with photographs; but they are rarely taken. "Stills"
are invariably made of the actors in all their scenes, calm
or dangerous ; but Hobody ever thinks of making a still
of the poor devil with the camera, even though he may
be hanging by his eyebrows from the edge of a sky-
scraper. But why should they ? Who are we, anyway ?

The public is interested only in the pictures of the
Willie-boys and Minnie-girls that we record. The peo-
ple care nothing about the fellow who records them.
Even the old English custom of kissing the cook when
the dinner was good has largely gone out of fashion.
But I hope to show before I am finished that there Is
often more real, picturesque excitement behind the
camera than your dimpled hero is pulling before it.

Our profession is made up of camera men and crank
turners, the latter being perhaps plumbers or under-
takers who have jumped into the game without the least
training for it. They know nothing of the camera, ex-
cept to twist its tail. No crank turner ever admits that
he is one, but regrets that four-fifths of the other fellows
are. After a couple of years, if a chap has worked intel-
ligently hard, he may take pictures that will justify the
title of camera man. In my own case I learned a great
deal inside of one year. Joe, the laboratory superin-
tendent, was particularly patient with me and helped me
through my experimental stage.

By working in sympathy with the laboratory I had full
tests made of aU my work. You see, when we shoot a
scene we always take about three feet after the director

120 FILM FOLK

has ordered us to cut ; we then open the camera and cut
a notch in the film. This last three feet is used for test
developing. In rewinding from the magazines the
laboratory man watches for the notches, and at each one
he cuts the three feet behind it. This part of the film is
then developed by letting one end down slowly into the
developer, so that the forty-eight pictures are developed
in different lengths of time. When the strip is exam-
ined, the best spot is observed and the time of develop-
ment noted ; then the scene from which the test was cut is
developed accordingly. I might add that in my opinion
the laboratory superintendent should be drawing the
highest pay on the lot, for into his hands goes hundreds
of thousands of dollars' worth of film for better or for
worse.

Before the war, cameras ranged in price from four
hundred and fifty to twelve hundred doUars; but the
ambition of every camera man is to make a new ma-
chine, one that is "right." Every man who handles
the cinema has all his own little devices and stunts for
achieving various effects.

It is very amusing how we all watch and work for the
trick stuff ; but the sad part is that, after one has worked
his head off to devise some new and novel effect, he can
use it only once. Every other camera man hops upon
his secret as soon as it is shown. So important is this
fact that, in order to use a trick even once, great secrecy
must be maintained; and the big, high-priced, multiple
companies are very timid about allowing strangers in the
studio. If a scout from some cheap little split-reel
comedy company, turning out two pictures a week,

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 121

should steal the trick or situation, his company might
beat the big fellow to the screen with it by several weeks.

PRECAUTIONS AGfAINST CAMERA PIRATES

This reminds me that we, also, have our pirates —
camera pirates. "When some director has spent anything
up to a hundred thousand dollars to build a wonderful
set, some pirate might conceal his camera or sneak in
early some morning and film enough of the set to use for
a picture of his own. In order to circumvent that dodge,
we keep the set placarded, except when we are using it,
with the company's name or the title of the story. These
placards, distributed everywhere, absolutely prevent
stealing.

The photographers doing dramatic stuff are inclined to
laugh at the camera man of the comics as a poor devil
who is sentenced to do necessary but inartistic work;
but, having done both, I can say truthfully that my work
with the comics was far the better training of the two in
helping me toward the mastery of my camera. It is
true that in the drama one has opportunity to work for
beautiful light effects, since much of the success of the
picture depends on fine photography ; but after all, com-
pared to comedy, the work is most leisurely. People who
sit and howl their heads off at the Keystone Police or
Charlie Chaplin have no idea how difficult it was to make
the picture.

The average fan believes that these jolly chaps splash
through those scenes just as they occur, the whole thing
taking probably an hour to make. The fact is, it takes
more than twice as long to make a comedy as a drama.

122 FILM FOLK

One reel a week is supposed to be the average for dra-
matic work, except the big-feature stuff; but in comedy,
if we make a two-reeler within a month we think we have
attained speed. Often a simple two-reel comedy will
take six or seven weeks of hard work to build; and in
order to get that little two thousand feet we shoot per-
haps twenty-five thousand, twenty-three thousand feet
of which is utterly wasted!

Good comedy is the most serious stuff we make — ^work,
work, work, work, just to produce one little laugh.
Often the whole studio will be called into consultation —
managers, directors, and even extras — ^to see why a par-
ticular scene is not funny and to make suggestions. It is
a mere trifle to spend two thousand dollars to get a sixty-
foot laugh. The dramatic stories are filmed from script,
and everything is so well planned that they often go
through many scenes with only one rehearsal. But it is
quite impossible to work from script in comedy; a bare
synopsis is all we have. The humor must be developed
on the spot, and this is not always easily accomplished.
I have seen Charlie Chapliu absolutely refuse to work for
several days because he could not do a few feet of film
ia a way he thought was sufficiently humorous. Then,
often the whole story will be changed because of some
unforeseen bit of action that takes place during its
making.

The speed of the action is the camera man's greatest
problem. If the action is to be slowed down, we must
crank faster, and if it is to be speeded up, we must crank
more slowly. Normal cranking is at sixteen. This
means the taking of sixteen pictures to two revolutions
in one second. So, if we crank at eight, the action will

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 123

be twice as fast. Our speeds range all the way from one
to twenty-four; and when you realize that we have to
compensate our light with each change of speed, it will
be seen that the camera man is kept on the jump quite
as much as the actors. I am not going to dwell upon the
tricks of the camera, for it has been done to death and is
disillusionizing; and, anyway, I think the adventures
of a camera man are a great deal more exciting than his
mechanical triumphs.

But there is one stunt that is rather amusing. It is a
very nifty way we have of stopping a train. It is easy
enough to get pictures of the bunch hopping off and on
a Pullman sleeper when she is in the yard ; but to get the
Empire State Express to slow down to almost a stop be-
tween stations would be nearly impossible. But it is
impossibilities that we eat. Hand a camera man a prob-
lem and his head will split before he gives it up. You 11
laugh when I teU you how easy it is to stop an express
train ; and, furthermore, none of the . passengers will
know it. When the train appears in the distance we
crank at normal speed, but as she draws nearer we begin
to speed up, thus slowing the action of the train; and if
we can crank fast enough, we can almost bring the train
to a standstill.

HOW TO RAISE A SETTING SUN

Because of the intensity of the light, sunrises are
almost impossible to film ; so if we want a sunrise we pho-
tograph a sunset and reverse the action by rewinding the
film and feeding it through the camera backward.

When you are watching the antics of a bunch of come-
dians overturning a motor-boat, how many of you ever

124 FILM FOLK

stop to wonder where the camera was ? When Syd Chap-
lin stood on the top of a submarine while she sped along
and then began to submerge, did you think the camera
was in a balloon? Well, it was n't. It was on the back
of the submersible ; and the fellow at the crank had to
keep turning until the water reached the top of his
tripod, when the camera was rescued by somebody on
the superstructure. But the camera man had to shift
for himself.

One reason the companies prefer to own their cameras
is that if the operator used a twelve-hundred-dollar in-
strument belonging to the company, he would take pic-
tures with much greater abandon than if he stood to lose
or injure his own outfit.

The curse of my racing reputation and reckless pho-
tography stuck so hard that I have never been able
entirely to side-step it; and after serving about a year
in comedy I was bought off by a company that turned
out thrillers. There I found the making of railroad pic-
tures particularly trying. I have filmed hobos tearing
along through the oil and dust on the brake-beams of a
fast-moving express train, while I occupied a similar po-
sition on the other end of the car. I think I have shot
pictures from every part of the engine but the whistle ; I
grew to regard the dear old cow-catcher as being as com-
fortable and safe as a billiard-table. Also, with this
company I got my first taste of aeroplaning. It was the
one thrill left to satisfy my inordinate appetite for speed.
Naturally Mrs. Goodhue was worried, for she didn't
want her little Victor boy picked up on a blotter. How-
ever, a few glorious flights, on one of which I took her,

THE VICISSITUDES OP VICTOR 125

allayed her fears; and then one day I came home all
chopped up.

"We had been making a pursuit picture, following a
train. I had the camera, without the tripod, in my lap,
and was filming a very thrilling picture of the hero slid-
ing down a rope and dropping to the top of the fast-
moving cars. There is a tremendous suction in the wake
of an express train, and the pilot had a fierce time hold-
ing his course in the swirling atmosphere. When the
idiot who was doubling with the lead — for fifty dollars a
doub — dropped off the end of the rope, the lessened
weight threw the nose of our aeroplane straight up.
Something snapped, the pilot lost all control, and in less
time than it takes to tell it we were off on the wing and
somersaulting toward terra cotta ! That 's no joke, for
we landed in a brickyard. The reason we were not killed
was because we were both fairly well upholstered by
Nature ; but, as it was the pilot had a broken leg and I
was superficially slashed up.

This episode called forth another promise to Mrs.
Goodhue from me. I was to leave the company and seek
quieter work in a concern that made straight drama ; but
alackaday ! there is no such thing as rest for the wicked
camera man.

My first experience with the new company was mild
enough ; I was sent to San Pedro to do water stuff. The
first day for eight long hours I stood in freezing water
up to my chin trying to get a bunch of porpoises as they
went by. I am not a good seaman, and before I finished
that story I had cranked many a foot while I was so sea-
sick I could hardly hold my pins.

126 FILM FOLK

It is curious how we learn a sort of sub-conseious
rhythm. Mrs. Goodhue insists that once, in a mild night-
mare, I woke her because I was cranking away on my
pyjama strings. She watched me for some time and
said I was doing a perfect sixteen. Finally she called,
"Cut!" And I stopped and rolled over. If the tale is
true — and I very much doubt it — it shows how the
rhythm of the camera gets into our souls.

THE HAIR-PANTS STORT

The picture that very nearly pulled my cork was made
on this San Pedro trip. I had to go aloft about forty
feet, where a sailor lashed me and the camera securely to
the mast, and then had to shoot down on the deck, while
the darned old boat rolled over and back until I thought
it would capsize. It was well the action was not imme-
diately below me, for I expressed my physical distress
in that direction.

No, I don't care for the sea stuff, the land is more
restful. Restful, did I say? My next experience was
making a "Western picture. The hair-pants story is
usually very easy, except for the doubles; but, even at
that, I had a few adventures that ruffed me up consider-
ably. Once I was making a foreground picture of a
plunging horse and rider; and as I had my eye glued
close to the focusing hole, trying to get the figures into
my field of vision, I suddenly saw, looming up on the
ground-glass, the belly of a horse. Then, crash! down
he came on top of me and the camera. The repairs on
the camera cost two hundred dollars. All I received was
a broken rib.

While sticking around during the few days my rib was

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 127

mending I became acquainted with Hank Grant, an ex-
cowboy who is now working the camera. The circum-
stance that changed his vocation was quite as accidental
and absurd as mine. Hank hasn't a very lofty opinion
of the moving-picture business and he expresses his con-
tempt in the most magnificent language. It is too bad I
cannot quote him exactly, but I regret to say that he is
most profane, I might even say blasphemous; for he
invokes his scorn upon the deities of both places. Here
is his story — minus the chili sauce — as he told it to me
the day we met :

THE CHARGE OP THE LIGHT BRIGADE

"I was foreman of a ranch in Arizona a few years ago
when a movie outfit arrived to make some battle pictures.
I furnished them with about four hundred head of horses
and riders, and they employed me to do the close-up
rough stuff. I trained a few good foreground horses,
and we made quite a lot of bang-up pictures. Then they
decided to do the ' Charge of the Light Brigade. ' I was
cast for Lord Cardigan; so I sends to the library at
Phoenix for a book and reads all about it. I discovered
that I was to be the hero of the piece. I thought it
darned queer that I never got within thirty feet of the
camera. And do you know that when the picture was
squirted in Phoenix, and I took a bunch of the boys over
to see it, I found that I had been doubling for a Clarence-
boy from New York, who couldn't have fallen off a
hobby-horse without doughin' up his putty face? The
boys sure had the laugh on me ! Then I learned that he
drew a great big salary, while I took all the risks.

"Well, on top o' that, darned if they didn't bribe

128 FILM FOLK

me to throw up my foreman's job and go with the outfit
to Colorado Springs, where, for fifteen dollars a fall, I
doubled to save the worthless necks of pie-faced actors in
sport-shirts and wrist-watches ! Of course I was making
money, else I shouldn't have been so self-sacrificing.
But, as more 'n' more of the boys were lured off into the
movies, the price of falls went down, until now you can
find hundreds of the poor devils who will risk their fool
necks for three dollars a day. I saw it comin' and de-
cided to break away from the disgraceful game of imi-
tatin' imitation actors in imitation scenes, and get a
man's job.

"First I aspired to the job of property man; but I
soon saw that a cow-waddie didn't have the qualifica-
tions to get away with it. In this job a man must be a
geologist, botanist, biologist, taxidermist, gunsmith, gas-
fitter, chemist, ofi5ee-boy, errand-boy, and caddie to the
director. He must also possess second-sight, have acute
hunches, and know the use of the divining rod in order
to locate props.

"Imagine asking anybody but a clairvoyant to fill an
order like this, and have it on the west stage at nine a. m.
to-morrow : A polar bear, four humming-birds in cages,
a Gothic window, a set of blue-and-yellow peasant porch-
furniture, the flag of the Swiss Navy, an automobile of
1890, a couple of dwarfed Japanese oaks, a bed-room set
of Louis XIV, a stuffed alligator, a battered milk-can,
and a steel engraving of The Crossing Policeman !

"No, I 'm no superman; so, with all my might and
main I tackled the camera, and we were friends from the
start. When I began to crank the picture-box my self-
respect gradually came back. I simply couldn't act in

I'd sooner leave the shooting of the sea stuff to the sailor

■a

t3

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 129

these here 'Western' pictures, directed hy dudes and
acted by perfumed Percys. I don't want to look like no
Sistine Madonna, and I 'm a son-of-a-gun if I '11 ever
again double with one who does, just to let him be a
hero. After taking a few hard humps on both ends
of my axis, it used to get my hump to see how scissors,
subtitles, and cinematographers had all conspired to
force my heroism on the powdered automaton with the
grease-paint dimples in his chin.

"Whenever I am filming a Western story and see one
of these cow-eyed sissy-boys swagger into the picture in a
Los Angeles cow outfit, my only regret is that I 'm not
crankin' a machine-gun. Art itself demands a massacre
of these innocents. The Eastern cowboys should be
made to stick to their lavender teas and cut out our stuff ;
they are lots more becoming in white panties, hoot-owl
glasses, and pussycat hats. ' '

Most of the splendor of Hank's contempt for actors
came from his constant identification with "Western"
pictures. Those red-blooded tales of the plains are a
great passion with actors and directors who, as Hank
says, "have rain-water running through their very
coarse veias." But it must be admitted that the cow-
boys and Indians employed to furnish the rough at-
mosphere see the joke and begin to laugh as soon as the
camera cuts. It is curious that the actors and directors
don't ask these rough fellows what they are laughing at;
but perhaps they know — and don't care.

MAKING ACTORS POLITE

The man behind the camera is in a sort of detached
point of observation over the whole show, and the antics

130 FILM FOLK

of the directors and performers are his constant cross or
entertainment. The actors furnish most of the fun, and
the directors the trouble. It is from the vantage point
of the camera that one can observe human vanities in
all their wondrous variationis ; and again, mates, I regret
to say the male is "more vainer" than the female.
Usually the vanity is ia inverse proportion to the actor's
importance; or, it may be, the leads only appear more
modest because they know they will be full up in the
picture. "We have a very unlovely name for these peo-
ple. They are known as camera hogs. But how some
of those poor simps love it when they are ordered into a
close-up ! In their enthusiasm they show horror, fear,
pity, and love with such unctuous exaggeration that it
becomes comic. "We caU these facial acrobatics "mug-
ging."

Camera men, as a class, are not perfectly mad over
actors, as you may have gleaned; but perhaps we are
unfair, for they certainly are good to us. Even the
director is not subject to more pretty attentions that we
camera men who take the pictures. The reason is
quaint. You know the camera man can be quite snippy
to any actor who gets chesty beyond an actor's limit;
and that 's a large latitude. There are so many dear
little ways to get even. For instance, we can throw an
offender slightly out of focus, or "ring" him, which
means keeping him out of the center of the picture. "We
can put him in the shadows or on the edge. Knowing all
this, he is a foolish actor who will quarrel with a camera
man, for I regret to say we are shamefully human. An-
other little cross that we pass to him to make his life
quite irksome is in giving his make-up thumbs doWn.

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 131

The camera man has absolutely final say on the quality
of all make-up. If he wishes to be especially disagree-
able he can keep the poor actor humping to the make-up
room all morning to rectify his tint to conform to the
changing light.

I -won't say much about directors, for theirs is a job
for which I have aspirations. But this I will say : there
is one point of serious conflict between the director and
the camera man that has a great bearing on the quality
of the picture. The camera man, being entirely re-
sponsible for the photography, will often hesitate and
even refuse to shoot when the light has grown bad;
whereas the director, wishing to get all the footage
possible, will often order a picture made when the
camera man knows that the result wiU not be good.
This is especially true at those studios that have installed
the bonus system. At these places so-called efficiency
departments are in vogue, and they figure down to a cent
what a picture ought to cost.

Let us say that twenty thousand dollars is the figure
allowed, and that for everything saved on this price
the director is given a certain bonus. It thus becomes
financially advantageous for the director to get foot-
age at aU costs, and he orders the camera to shoot in
almost any light. The scheme may save on the cost of
production, but it is the death of art, and few camera
men like to work under these conditions ; in fact, so in-
terested are camera men in a good picture that it be-
comes their only consideration. Not a few of the girl
leads owe their success to the men at the crank; for if
they have good photographic faces, we instinctively give
them as much prominence as possible.

132 FILM POLK

It is queer there are not more women directors, for
they beat the men in many ways, especially in plays of
quiet and subtle action. In the violent stuff they often
become rattled. I was filming a Western scene for a
woman director once when a bad accident occurred right
out in front of us. A horse plunged, fell, rolled upon
the rider, and was crushing him painfully. The idea
which possessed the feminine mind of the director at
that moment was not to stop the horse, but the camera.
She thought that by doing so she was ending the action !
So she turned to me and cried hysterically: "Cut, Vic!
Cut ! Can 't you see he is being hurt ? ' '

It is the function of the camera man to keep cranking
a scene until ordered to stop, and sometimes not then,
if in his judgment he is going to miss something. In a
Western story, where the lead suffered an accident that
put him in the hospital for a month, the director ordered
the camera to cut, but the operator thought he 'd take a
few feet of the accident on a chance. When the actor
was struck by the plunging horse, his head was badly
cut and he fell forward on his face, as though dead.
All rushed to pick him up, and he was carried away in an
unconscious condition. When it was found that he
would recover, the director decided to change the story
in order to use the wonderful realism of the accident
the camera man had secured; so, in the story, the hero
was killed.

QUICK WIT MAKES GREAT PICTURES

Another incident that showed the quick wit of three
men and made a wonderful scene happened up in the
San Marcos Pass only a month ago. A man in a light

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 133

buggy was pursued by a sheriff on horseback. Coming
at full speed straight down the mountain road toward the
camera, the man in the buggy was to be shot and fall
out upon the road close in the foreground, while the
team dashed on. Curiously enough, when about twenty-
five feet away, the buggy struck a rock and threw the
driver out upon his head. Projected on the screen, it
would look as if he had been killed by accident rather
than by gunshot, which was not the point of the story.
The director, thinking the scene was spoiled, and fear-
ing that the driver might have been hurt, started to run
to his assistance, when the camera man, thinking more
quickly, bawled him out so scandalously that, almost out
of sheer fright, he ducked behind a rock.

The sheriff also had his wits, for he knew that his man
must be shot and not accidentally killed. So, when he
saw his victim rising on his knees after his fall, he ig-
nored entirely the unforeseen action that had taken
place, took aim and fired. The injured driver had
thought, of course, the scene was killed ; but, hearing the
shot, his wits told him it was his cue, and he plunged
forward again as though in death. The camera man, in
turn, when he had filmed the accident, pammed — ^the
outrageous word "pam" means panorama — immediately
to the sheriff in the hope that he would shoot. He did,
and this made it necessary to "pam" quickly back to
get the driver's fall. The driver, watching out of the
comer of his eye, gave the camefra man time to "pam"
before plunging down. Needless to say, it was one of
the best and most convincing pictures ever made ; but it
would have been lost had any of the three men been less
alert.

134 FILM FOLK

Another incident of this kind shows the triumph of a
man's art over his sense of chivalry, and it cost him a
great sentimental loss. This camera man was in love
with the girl who played second lead in the company,
and everybody on the lot considered them engaged.
One day they were doing a bridge picture, and the girl,
in heavy riding-clothes, slipped and fell into the river.
What 's more, she went straight under. Two of the
fellows dived in and succeeded in bringing her to the
surface. The poor, frightened camera fellow was so
placed that he couldn't possibly have reached her; but
when he saw that they were bringing her up he began to
crank the camera, for he thought she would be pleased to
have a picture of herself rescued from actual drowning.
Which shows that he was a poor guesser. The girl was
furious at his heartlessness and hasn't spoken to him
since. The thoughtless suitor is now the most sullen
grouch on the lot.

THE LION MADE HIM NERVOUS

It used to be that the wild-animal stuff had much ex-
citement for the camera man, but that was before we
were the fellows in the cage while the jungle denizens
took to the stage. I know one chap, however, who holds
the most violent opinions regarding animal pictures, as
he made one on account of which he has not yet regained
his nerve. It was in the early days when working with
the "cats" was new, and this is the story as he told it at
the Static Club :

"I was a bit nervous to start with, for I have never
had any use for the cats, but success meant a lot for
the studio ; so, when I was told to crank, no matter what

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 135

happened, I decided to keep a-goin' if the darned lion
ate up the whole cast. There was a couple of bum actors
I 'd 'a' liked to 'a' seen disappearin' headforemost into
the brisket of the king of beasts ; but— well ! Who do
you suppose the son-of-a-gun picked out for lunch? Me,
gol ding it! Me! He even passed up chickens, both
kinds, for me! I s'pose he didn't like my looks or the
sound of the camera ; but, in any event, when the scene
started he perked up his ears and lowered his head, and
though I was quite a way off, I seemed to be the only
thing in the scenery that interested him.

"First, he just squatted down on his haunches and
stared at me. I began to get a little white behind the
gills, but I kept my nerve. Then, rising slowly and
snoopily, with his head almost on the ground, that beast
let out a howl that sent my blood just thirty-two below
in one second. Then he started for me in great bounds.
Everybody, especially the women, screamed like they
was being et alive; and the director, about ten feet be-
hind me, was bellowing through two megaphones:
' Stick to it. Bill ! Don't quit for anything ! "We '11 get
him! "We '11 get him!' I knew, of course, that they
had a couple of sharpshooters stationed behind me ; but,
to teU the truth, I didn't have much confidence in their
ability to hit a running target, and I figured, if they
did n't fire pretty darned quick, it would be squash, blub-
blub for your little "Willie.

"That last ten feet I cranked while I was sound asleep,
I guess. I was sayin' a prayer to every turn of the
handle and just looking straight ahead into a sort of
growing haze. The director, being a good sport, wanted
to get the lion as close up as possible before ordering

136 FILM FOLK

the boys to shoot. It 's easy to be a good sport with an-
other fellow's shape. Well, aU I remember is the two
shots, and then a lot of people tryiag to untangle a
dead lion, a camera, and a jackass. "When it was all
over they began to make a hero of me ; but I ended that
bunk right quick by telling them that the reason I did n't
move was because I couldn't, and that God must have
been cranking the camera.

"Never again! I '11 go up or down on anything, and
take any human chance ; but if I have to turn a handle
while a hippopotamus starts to eat my foot off, the pub-
lic will have to go without the picture."

ACCIDENT INSURANCE COMES HIGH

Mrs. Goodhue's desire to get me into a less hazardous
occupation than that of camera man is not based solely
on any silly feminine fright, just because I happened
to land in the hospital. No, sirree! I leave it to her,
when she wants to win a point, to back up her argument
with facts.

It seems there are in the world certain hard-boiled,
ferret-eyed individuals who every so often gather about
a mahogany table and, from the statistics on accidents
that lie before them, figure out a very gruesome thing
called a mortuary table. This is the dope sheet for
the sprightly life and accident insurance ofScials.

The thing friend wife discovered was that this table
prompted the insurance companies to bet very high
that a camera man will be either killed or injured within
a specified time; in fact, they consider us fully a sixty
percent, greater risk than the directors.

She told me this morning she had been talking to the

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 137

agent — "a eharmmg fellow ! " — and he had told her that,
even so, our rates were very much too low, considering
the hazards of our profession. The only reason they
were not higher was because we were such good moral —
now I understand the agent's charm — and physical risks ;
and, furthermore, we were so enamored of our jobs
that we would rather be right back on them again
than stick the company fifty dollars a week while we
looked at a knot-hole and smoked cigarettes.

Far be it from me to dispute their disgusting statis-
tics ; but, such is human nature, we always feel that, of
course, we shall not be killed. It is the same human
optimism that prompts people to rebuild a town over
the volcanic ashes of the one they lost. However, our
life is not all chance and danger; it has its quieter
angles. These less strenuous phases are no less inter-
esting.

There are four distinct fields of operation for the
camera man : Educational work, which may be done by
travel or in the laboratory ; promotion enterprises, show-
ing, for instance, the citrus industry or a manufacturing
plant; the semi-weekly news service; and studio work.
It is in the last that I have had my adventures; but
I know enough of the exploits of the other fellows to
give a quick slant at their various stunts.

MOVING-PICTUEE NEWS SERVICE

The camera men of Los Angeles have an organization
known as the Static Club, and at its meetings the mem-
bers exchange views of mutual helpfulness and incident-
ally enliven their evenings by recounting their experi-
ences. A writer seeking material for the adventure

138 FILM FOLK

stuff would find in the affairs of these men a veritable
gold mine of incidents upon which to build his stories.

One chap, for instance, was the first cinematographer
to penetrate the Congo. He took pictures in the days
when reels were only sixty feet long; and he has a story
that would curl your hair. Another has filmed icebergs
and glaciers in the Arctics ; while one got into the deep-
est recesses of forbidden Tibet. In every remote quar-
ter of the globe these fellows have filmed the wonders
of the world and made them real. Each one has his
story, but they are perhaps more interesting as travel-
ogues than camera experiences; so I shall confine my
story to the news bulletin and the studio camera man.

A few years ago the moving-picture newspaper was
practically unknown; if a public event happened in a
city where some studio was located, a man would be sent
out to make a picture, which would be spliced on any
reel that happened to be short. But, as the interest in
news pictures grew, a few of the studios began to devote
more time to the work, until its importance demanded a
complete department for handling news stories only.

Now we have several great organizations devoted to
the single purpose of furnishing biweekly news bulletins
to the public. They are pictorial newspapers in every
sense of the word; each has its central office, editorial
staff, headline writers, reporters, mechanical plant, and
circulation department. From the central office, the
editor is in telegraphic communication with his report-
ers all over the world. In this case the reporters are
camera men. If an event of any importance is scheduled
in the remotest comer of the earth, the editor looks at

THE VICISSITUDES OP VICTOR 139

his map, covered with little flags giving the precise
location of every reporter, and telegraphs to the one
who is most accessible to the spot. It may mean a
motor-trip of three hundred miles, or the hiring of a
special train, in order to get the picture; but if the
editor thinks it justifies the expenditure, he orders it.
And just as a newspaper editor will demand that his
correspondent send in a thousand words of some feature
story, so the staff camera man will be ordered to send in
fifty, a hundred, or two hundred feet of film. Some-
times, after great labor and expense, the camera man
arrives only to find light conditions impossible.

The editorial staff is constantly alert for possible news
stories, and a scoop by one company is a complete beat
when it is accomplished. A daily newspaper may find
that its rival has beaten it to a good story, but it can
always come out a few minutes later with enough of a
story to save its face and give its readers the news.
In pictorial reporting one either gets a picture or he
doesn't, and it is absolutely impossible to fake up a
substitute when one has been scooped.

The editorial staff handles the film when it comes in,
has titles written and the footage cut according to its
importance; and sometimes, in great events like the ar-
rival of the Deutschland, holds up the bulletin and, if
necessary, tears down the reel, so that the story can be
spliced in. Incidentally it might be interesting to know
that one reporter hired a tug at one a. m., steamed down
the Potomac, grabbed the picture before his competitors,
and had them scooped in all theaters west of Pittsburgh.

Competition is very keen and speed becomes a re-

140 FILM FOLK

porter's greatest attribute. The local reporters, mostly
married men with families, have definite territory to
cover; they send in their film and get their weekly
checks. The correspondents, of whom there are a great
many throughout the country, are paid on the footage
basis, the rate being from forty cents to a dollar a foot.
When one of these fellows films an event, he wires to
the news film the nature of it, the amount of negative,
and whether competitors were present.

To facilitate speed, the men are equipped with police
and fire passes.

The personality of the camera man is much more im-
portant than in ordinary reporting; and some of the
feUows with the news films are almost national char-
acters, knowing practically all the big men in public
life well enough to get to them at the times they need
them.

The laboratories are also run on newspaper lines;
there is no leisurely developing to get fine effects of
lighting. If the film arrives early, of course they can
give it more time or "keep it on ice"; but most of the
stuff is rushed through by express or parcel-post, and
must be developed at once. Sometimes only a few hours
are permitted for the work. When the make-up man
finally has the film assembled, spliced, and labeled, it is
projected for the editor, and then rushed to the print-
ing rooms, where the positives are made — a hundred
or more, according to the circulation of the service —
and sent to the different subscribers throughout the
country. Perhaps you think a circulation of one hun-
dred is stingy ; but these few copies will, no doubt, reach
the eyes of five million people.

THE VICISSITUDES OP VICTOR 141

PICTURES OF POLITICIANS

Before the present elaborate means of getting "live"
pictures was developed, many of the news films were
padded out with very uninteresting pictures. The
novelty alone sustained the interest ; but as this novelty
wore off, the fans began to tire of silk-hatted politicians
laying corner-stones, frumpy ladies breaking pop-bottles
on the bows of launching ferryboats, colorless flower
parades, and stupid railroad wrecks. They could see a
real wreck in the "drammer" that was to follow; so they
were not interested in the pictures of a lot of smoking
junk. Editors began to realize that human interest was
the thing ; so when they showed thirty feet of that little
old sport. Captain Koenig, the audiences applauded for
every foot. But the excitement of the news-service
game is with the outside, usually unmarried, man. As
I said before, he can't get his news vicariously; he must
be aggressively present, and this has led to some very
curious situations.

In the case of notable men, many of them will give
out carefully prepared interviews, but most of them balk
at having their pictures taken without an opportunity
of editing the proofs. President "Wilson, for instance,
will permit no pictures of himself as a private citizen;
but as President, if he is notified, he will submit upon
occasions. Mrs. Wilson at first was very firm in her
refusal; but occasionally she will now walk past the
machine without ducking. T. Roosevelt has the
Napoleonic psychology as to the picture he wants pub-
lished. Napoleon, you may have heard, instructed his
court painters to render him as he wished to appear

142 FILM POLK

in the imagination of the people; so the artists por-
trayed him as the Imperious Emperor. He also had his
coins stamped with his profile, haloed by a wreath of
bay leaves, like a Roman imperator.

Colonel Roosevelt objects seriously to being taken un-
awares, as various camera-smashing episodes testify;
but he will pose, not unwillingly. An artist friend once
told me that he was making character sketches of the
Colonel in the old Fifth Avenue Hotel while T. R. was
meeting an endless train of callers. "When finished, the
artist tried to make a nice, quiet, little get-away, think-
ing that the Colonel had quite forgotten his inconspicu-
ousness. He did not wish to interrupt immense affairs
of state. But, after all, the joke was on the state, for
it had to wait until the Colonel had looked at the
sketches; and then he asked: "My dear fellow, won't
you kindly put nose-glasses on me, instead of these
spectacles? I wear them because they are comfortable,
but in a picture they make me look like a schoolmaster."
If a former schoolmaster, living in a large white man-
sion in "Washington, D. C, should read this, he would be
entitled to a large and luxuriant smile.

J. P. Morgan, Senator Root, and Justice Hughes —
at least before he became a candidate — are the despair
of camera men. But their joy is Mr. Taft. He will
pose most cordially.

Of course, if we are sent out for a picture of some
public personage, we try to get it, even if the p. p. acts
shy and kittenish about it. We sometimes have to con-
ceal the machine in a moving-van or delivery wagon ; but
our best stunt is to take the camera in a limousine, and
then keep just ahead of the carriage of the p. p. while

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 143

we film him through the back window. Sometimes we
even arrange a street blockade, so that we can sneak a
few feet of our shy little statesman. He is always per-
fectly furious at being snapped, and then he will go, in
a state of great indignation — often several times — to
see the picture when it is released.

THE VANITY OF SACKED COWS

It 's too bad that I can't tell of the delightful vanity
of some of the sacred cows of business and politics.
There are a whole lot of these great leaders who do
not care to have their pictures taken — only they do!
In fact, some of them are more down-stage than the
vainest film favorite who ever scrawled his John Han-
cock across his foolish face. There is one well-known
philanthropist who is constantly inviting the camera
men to his estate, hoping that the next week's release
wiU show the great almoner playing golf with a bunch
of important nobodies. It 's a hard thing to record,
mates, but the news reporters teU me that, as a rule,
men have much more silly vanity before the camera
than women.

The news photographer has to be very alert not to
fall for the little tricks of the foxy advertiser. If it is
seen that a platform is building in preparation for the
filming of a certain event, like a parade or an inaugura-
tion, leave it to some merry wight, advertising shredded
bath-mitts or Turkish cigarettes, to get his goods em-
blazoned all over the background. In order to butt into
the pictures these fellows wiU resort to every known
trick and a few new ones. I heard of one man who
placarded the whole side of a building with a beer ad.

144 FILM FOLK

and then went to the camera man and told him he 'd
give him fifty dollars if he didn't change his location.
The camera man took the fifty dollars and kept his
obligation, for he did not change his location; but when
he shot the picture he cut it just below the brewer's
eign!

Once, when an important parade picture was being
taken in San Francisco, a moving-van, with a famous ad
newly painted on its huge side, went by just as a great
Oriental statesman was getting out of his carriage.
When the film reached the editorial staff it was eon^
fronted with a great question: The picture was im-
portant ; yet if they let this wildcat advertiser get away
with that dodge, they would be pestered to death in
the future. Every ad man in the country would be
sitting up nights trying to think up schemes for break-
ing into the news bulletins, for five million spectators
are worth going after. The film was killed and that
particular stunt discouraged. But, like newspapers, the
films are developing regular advertising sections; the
fashions from well-known costumers and tailors, where
the name is mentioned, are straight paid advertising.

Not every news picture just happens ; some are made.
A news editor is constantly bombarded by curious ego-
tists and freaks who wish the world to witness their
effulgence. "The oldest living barber of Ypsilanti"
will offer his distinguished bean for the small sum of
ten dollars; "Lincoln's last (No. 41144!) bodyguard"
will also be pleased to submit to the camera for, say,
five doUars; a dietary crank who claims to live up a
tree, and who for eight years has eaten nothing but
prunes and hickory nuts, writes in that his picture is a

a

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 145

humanitarian necessity for anybody afflicted with
"ganzes" — whatever that is. Then there are the
chumps who would jump off anything, from the top
of a fire-ladder to the Brooklyn Bridge, or submit to
a living burial. A flat rate of a hundred dollars is the
price usually paid to these poor devils.

Some of the best stories, of course, are not foreseen,
such as accidents, earthquakes, and cyclones; and it is
at these times that the camera man must show his
resourcefulness. In a certain great train-wreck a group
of about a dozen photographers managed to get within
twenty miles of the scene, when their car was side-
tracked and seaJed up. Railroads do not like to have
their blunders advertised. One of the marooned fel-
lows managed to smuggle his camera and himself out of
a lavatory window on the off-side of the car and, after
walking for two hours, secured a team of mules, which
took him to the wreck. He got one hundred feet of good
film, showing the injured people being taken out, and
returned to the car without ever having been missed
by the officials on watch.

It is in time of war that the camera man has opportun-
ity to make a hero or an ass of himself for the sake of a
picture. At present, in all the great theaters of war,
there are men taking pictures ; but they are being made
under the direct supervision of officers, and the censor-
ship of what is taken or goes out is so rigid that there
is not the same latitude of operation as there was when
the movie was new. Many of the battle pictures shown
at the cheap theaters were taken either at manceuvers or
faked behind the lines. When the immensity of the
modern battle is considered, it will be seen how inade-

146 FILM POLK

quate a narrow-angled movie camera would be to por-
tray it. "First line" photography is practically out
of the question; the action is too dangerous. When
one dares not look out of a trench, except through a
periscope, you can see what chance a fellow would
have who tried to rise up, focus, and crank a camera.
A few long-distance shots can be obtained by the use
of a telescopic lens, but there is not much doing in the
close-up stuff in European warfare.

PAKE AND EEALITT IN MEXICO

However, nobody should get an idea that the camera
man is immune from danger; his adventures in the big
war will be worthy of a special history. Many of
them have already received marks for distinguished
service.

Some of them are taking intimate pictures of trench
warfare and bomb-throwing that will be most illuminat-
ing when the release is permitted. I know one movie
studio that has on ice more than nine thousand feet
of such film; but it cannot honorably release the pic-
tures until after the war.

There are a lot of free-lance camera fakers who ought
to be given monuments or cyanide — I hardly know
which. Some of the battle stuff they are staging is
perfectly wonderful; and some of it, alas, is so raw
that even a child would not be deceived.

In the good old days of the Mexican revolution the
life of the camera man was one of personal adventure.
He was here, there, and everywhere; in jail and out;
with the rebel outs or the constitutionalist ins, but al-
ways alert for a good picture. One of the boys on our

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 147

lot was made an officer in the Mexican army, under
Huerta, and was furnished with a bodyguard.

"Yes; I had a bodyguard," said he, "whenever I
didn't need it. For two years I took pictures for the
Mexican Government; but, as it was sometimes diffi-
cult to tell who were the ins, on several occasions I got
tangled in my vivas and was led out to be shot. I was
always saved by sending for the American consul or by
my absolute inability to understand a word of Span-
ish. At this time Mexico was flirting with America;
so the killing of Americans was not considered the
parlor sport it had been. My greatest difficulty was in
getting and keeping an assistant. A movie outfit is a
fierce bunch of stuff to pack over a desert country, and
though there were lots of Mexicans available, they would
not stick. So, often I would have to load the whole
darned equipment aboard a burro, like a mountain-gim,
and go out after the war stuff alone.

"There were lots of American soldiers of fortune,
but they were invariably looking for trouble and thought
packing a camera much too slow. I had one Iowa chap
for three days, who finally quit me for some excite-
ment 'over there.' He found it, all right; for two days
later, when I was pulling into Vera Cruz, I saw seven
ghastly creatures hanging by their necks to a telegraph
pole; and who should be among them but my little
Yankee camera boy!

"Street fighting is the easiest to film, for if you can
get a good location on a side street, you have the pro-
tection of all the intervening buildings from artillery
and rifle fire, while you occasionally get a chance to
shoot a few feet of swell fihn, I got some great stuff

148 FILM FOLK

in Mexico City a few days before Madero was killed.
One fellow, not twenty feet out from my camera, had
his head shot clean off; but, do you know, the darned
censors would never let us show the picture in the States !
What do you s'pose they send us to war for? To show
the soldiers playing squat-tag?"

A WAITING GAME

"But the big battle stuff is almost impossible to get,
and the best war pictures taken in Mexico have been
faked. Mexican generals are more vain than actors,
and are most eager to go bowling down to posterity
in the movies. So, in order to perpetuate their heroics,
they would re-ride a battle after it was over, with the
dead still lying on the ground. This method was per-
fectly safe and it gave me a chance to make some swell
close-up. A lot of the historical film in the archives
of the Mexican Government was made in this way.

"You can believe it or not; but it's gospel truth
that, by convincing General Soanso that he had no
right to deprive the world of a record of his dashing
military genius, he actually postponed his attack upon
a certain town because I told him the light was bad!"

Of course the bunch at the Border had a pretty dull
time; there was little to shoot and the military restric-
tions were very troublesome. Most of the fellows down
there were glad to get back to studio work, for we do
much more exciting war stuff right in Los Angeles than
they had in the Mexican trouble.

But our lives are not all alarum, battles, and acci-
dents. "We have our paths of peace, too; and they are
the most peaceful paths one ever trod. Can you think

THE VICISSITUDES OP VICTOR 149

of anything less belligerent or less strenuous than sit-
ting by a hole for eight hours, your hand on the crank,
waiting for a gopher to come out?

Sometimes these little pictures, quite incidental to
the plot, take longer to make than a big scene. I know
one fellow who shot three thousand feet of film to get
two three-foot flashes of a couple of mating pigeons.
In one picture the camera man was three days getting
a little short scene showing a white horse putting his
head through the window and looking down the road
after his retreating master.

When it is a simple case of watching, the jobs are
often turned over to the camera kids — or assistants, as
they prefer to be called. Even the kids sometimes show
great ingenuity. Willie, my assistant, was sent one day
to photograph a mocking-bird singing on a branch.
Everybody knew the boy was in for one of those in-
terminable waits, perhaps for several days. The bird
was in a cage large enough to move round in; in fact,
it inclosed a fig-tree. There the boy was to set up his
camera and wait. Everybody kidded the kid about his
exciting job; and Mrs. Grandon, wife of our feature
leading man, in a spirit of joyous josh, embraced him in
front of everybody and bade him a long farewell.

"All right," said Willie; "just for that I'm goin'
to fool you!" And, with a jaunty bow, he beat it
away.

In just two hours he returned, triumphantly an-
nouncing that he had thirty feet of singing mocking-
bird ; he needed only a five-foot flash. Nobody believed
the story ; or, if they did, they put it down to very un-
usual luck. But the boy had the dope, all right ; we all

150 ' FILM FOLK

saw the negative projected the same day, and it wa*
great.

"Willie," said I that evening in the dark-room, "how
did you get that picture? Was the bird trained, or
just unafraid?"

"Neither," replied the lad. "I sat up in the cage
and focused a good close-up on a little branch of the
fig-tree ; and then I chased that bird round the cage for
half an hour until it was so tired it could fly no longer,
when I picked it up and put it on the limb. It was
panting so hard for breath that it looked just as though
it was singing, except that no noise came out. It was a
dirty trick on the poor bird, but I rewarded it by turn-
ing it loose; and then I gave the kid who owned it a
doUar."

Another observant lad at the studio had been watch-
ing the antics of some cockroaches in the lunch-wagon
across the street. He told Bluett, one of the directors,
how they behaved ; and from one little scene they built
round those loathsome insects, a splendid drama was
enacted. The cockroaches played the part of messengers
between prisoners in their cells, and carried an elab-
orate correspondence back and forth; one, in a fine
close-up, actually crossed over the sleeping hulk of a
prison-guard. The messages were written on pieces of
cigarette-paper and stuck on the backs of the roaches;
and, of course, the result was a concerted jail delivery
that emptied the prison.

An amusing episode happened in one of the Chicago
studios last winter. A well-known actor, whose beau-
tiful dome is seen on many a shopgirl's dresser, always
sported a big meat-hound of some queer breed. Ac-

THE VICISSITUDES OP VICTOR 151

cording to Miss Chauncey — as our hero was known back
of the camera — "this hound has quite as much intel-
ligence as I have, you know." But this was not an
entirely fair "tradelast" for the hound. Anybody with
half an eye could see who had the brains of the family.
Chauncey simply couldn't wait to have his dog act
with him; so some paranoiac was told off to write a
scenario in which the dog was to play second lead.
When the picture was shot, the dog did very well in all
the scenes where he could act with dog intelligence ; but
in one little flash he was to be shown coming down a
dark hall and stopping in the doorway; upon hearing his
master's voice he was to prick up his ears and come run-
ning toward the camera.

EAST ON THE TTPEWRITEB

Of course the poor beast couldn't read the script
and never knew quite what was expected of him; and
although he seemed perfectly willing, they could not
make him stop at the threshold and prick up his ears.
Chauncey tried every device and argument in his cata-
logue; and when all failed he showed his inferiority
to the dog by taking him out and kicking him most
brutally. The property man, a big, tender-hearted Irish-
man, jumped in to save the dog, slapped the actor across
the face, called him a pup, immediately apologized to
the dog, and led him away. The dog is now his faithful
companion ; and by direction of the management every-
body was forbidden to mention the affair in the presence
of our splendid hero.

Now the whole trouble arose by sticking too closely
to the script. A half day's work was wasted, every-

152 FILM FOLK

body lost his temper, the actor lost his dog and the re-
spect of his associates — and all because of a little four-
foot flash that could easily have been circumvented.

The camera man's Mte noire is the scenario writer;
he is the chump who plans most of our troubles. Be-
cause he knows naught of our mechanical difSculties or
limitations, he hands us scenes to make that the gods
themselves would have to pass up. He has such a
jaunty way of tossing off a direction like this: "As
the child is going down for the third time, bubbles are
seen rising to the surface. One bubble grows larger and
larger, and finally dissolves into a picture of the Heav-
enly Choir." This may be easy on the typewriter!

These scenario people have lately gone nutty on the
heaven-and-hell stuff. Every location and personage
in heaven above and hell below has been involved by
mystic scenario writers — and actually accomplished in
some sort of way by insane camera men. I '11 have to
admit, however, that I have no particular urge toward
the heaven I 've seen pictured thus far. Last week I was
called upon to dissolve a great, big, coarse creature,
with the general architecture of a sea-cow, into a Little
Eva. That was n't so hard as it was distasteful.

I have in this world just three pious hopes: First,
that whenever I hear a scenario writer is not well, I
may just sit down and hold the thought hard, and hope
for the worst; second, that sometime I may be vouch-
safed the opportunity of "dissolving" all the scenario
writers, most of the actors, and a few directors, into nice
little devils, and then refuse to "dissolve" them back;
and my last hope is, that I '11 get these hopes.

The camera man and the director who work with

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 153

little children must have very unusual temperaments,
as infinite patience and tact are required to make these
pictures. One man told me that he shot a scene forty-
two times before he could get the little two-year-old
tot to go over and crawl into a bureau drawer without
turning and looking into the camera. The child did it
right on the afternoon of the second day.

Another picture that required marvelous patience was
made in Tibet, or some outlandish place, where the chap
with great difficulty received permission to film the in-
terior of a celebrated and holy temple. The light was
so dim that he had to give each picture a full minute,
which meant that he could take but sixty in one hour.
After sticking by the camera for three days and crank-
ing every minute, he finally got enough film so that,
when projected, it showed one minute and a half on the
screen.

The laboratory workers taking movies of micro-organ-
isms, blood circulation, and the hatching of insect eggs
also must exercise amazing patience ; but, of course, the
work has an intense interest that compensates for its
slowness.

But the fellow I can't understand — ^nobody with my
kinetic make-up can possibly understand him — is the
one who turns the crank for the animated comics. That
job is about as exciting as picking the blooms off a cen-
tury plant. The artist sits at a table with a wash-draw-
ing before him of, say, a certain desert background,
and on this he lays his little cut-out figures of a hunter
and a lion, which he moves about at will.

Suppose, for instance, the hunter is about to shoot.
The figures are laid down in the first attitude, a celluloid

154 FILM FOLK

cover is pressed down, and the artist calls out to the
camera man : ' ' Two frames ! ' ' The fellow sitting above
the artist, with his machine pointing straight down,
cranks his camera twice. The camera, instead of taking
the usual eight pictures to each revolution, is adjusted to
the single-stop movement and takes but one. The artist
now raises the transparent sheet, moves the gun up a
little and perhaps pushes the lion's legs forward, the
celluloid is replaced, and he calls out: "One frame!"
Now a single picture is made.

SUBMARINE REALISM

In this way he moves his little marionettes slowly
and painstakingly about. He has scores of them, drawn
in all the various attitudes of continuous motion, cut
out and lying at hand. For the slightest pause in the
action, he will call out, "Three seconds!" for instance;
then he sits back and holds his hands, while the camera
man cranks three times sixteen, or forty-eight, frames.
This takes about a minute and a half of slow cranking,
and the pictures will be shown in three seconds. At
this speed two men can make only five hundred feet or
film in a month. The artist may get a little fun out of
playing with his paper-dolls, but for the camera man
to sit above him by the hot lights and crank slowly
every few minutes for a month is no job for a minister's
son, for we are reputed to be particularly restless.

An exciting picture for the camera man was made by
an Italian down in the Bermudas. They were doing
some Jules Verne stuff in submarines, and a long tube
was sunk in the water, at the bottom of which the opera-
tor sat and filmed the picture. The discomfort was

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 155

fiercej for the heat was intense and the air pressure un-
der which he worked was almost smothering. Once, when
he was working in very deep water, shooting a picture
of a negro pearl-diver, he witnessed and filmed an under-
sea tragedy that beats anything you ever read in a book.
A huge octopus lay on the bottom, some distance
back. The diver was to stay close in the foreground,
and when he beheld the octopus he was to beat it for
the surface. The strong tide, however, carried the negro
too close, and the octopus reached out and grabbed him.
In a moment he was tight in the coils of the monster's
huge arms. In the clear water of the Bermudas this
was witnessed from the surface; so a diver immediately
went down and cut the negro loose with an ax, but it was
nearly four minutes before they brought the poor fellow
up. All the time this was going on the Italian had
kept cranking ; and he got every foot of the picture until
the water was so full of blood and "ink" that nothing
could be seen.

ELECTRICAL MARKINGS

Of our mechanical troubles, "static" is the most dis-
tressing. Static is an electrical disturbance caused by
the friction of the celluloid film — you 've rubbed a comb
on a cat's back — and is very active under certain at-
mospheric conditions. It results in treelike images be-
ing splashed all along the film, greatly to its disfigure-
ment and often to its complete ruin. Static is most
likely to happen in very cold weather.

One company went up in the Bear Valley country
last winter to make some show pictures ; and when they
returned, out of fourteen scenes, ten were spoiled by

156 FILM FOLK

static. They went back to make the ten, out of which
seven were bad; they retook the seven, and four were
spoiled ; out of the four they got three good ones. Eather
than return to take the last scene, they faked it at the
studio. That static trouble cost the studio three weeks'
time and thirteen hundred dollars.

One of the first questions one American asks of an-
other is: "What do you get?" There is much mis-
information and exaggeration in regard to our salaries.
In a few cheap studios they run as low as twenty-five
dollars a week, but in first-class places they range from
fifty to one hundred. Occasionally, a few get as high as
one hundred and fifty or two hundred; these are the
ones with the greatest experience, intelligence, and pic-
torial sense. High-priced men usually film the big-fea-
ture stories, as it would n't do to risk great, expensive
scenes with any but the best operators. Often in these
pictures one of the lesser lads gets an opportunity to
make good, this occurring when there is necessity for
using two or three cameras on one big scene. One man
might fail, but it is not likely that three would. Here
the young man is in direct competition with his master
on the same picture, and if he does as well or better, it is
a personal triumph that demands recognition.

So important is the work of the camera man that a few
of the most enlightened companies now place his name
on the title, along with those of the director, lead, and
company. It has added much to the dignity and pride
of the profession, and has a decided tendency toward
good work; for when a fellow has his picture signed,
he will move heaven and earth to make it right.

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 157

In this business, as in many others, it is largely a
matter of "he that hath, to him shall be given"; for in
the big-feature stuff the camera man has much more
opportunity of success, because of the care in selecting
location, the most propitious time for shooting, the choice
of intelligent actors and director, and the footage al-
lowed. It is not uncommon to take five months in mak-
ing a ten-reel story, and to shoot over a hundred thou-
sand feet in, order to get ten thousand.

As a crank-turner can never become a camera man
until he masters the laboratory — and a lot of other
things — I have always believed that a director should
learn the camera. The few directors who have gradu-
ated from the camera have an immense advantage over
those to whom it is a closed bos. It has been Mrs.
Goodhue's ambition that I should aspire to a director-
ship. She says my present job is more trying on her
nerves than was my racing career. Judging by the
honorable scars, whose tracery is seen all over my rap-
idly mending architecture, she has some grounds for
her opinion.

Just before I started the picture that brought me to
this hospital, an ill wind to Mr. Wheeler, the director,
brought me a corking opportunity. When we were on
the third reel of a bully feature-story, he was taken sick
with pneumonia. Many an evening we had gone over
the story and visited the locations together ; and he gen-
erously insisted at the office that I should be permitted
to finish the picture, as I knew its needs better than
anybody else. So I filmed and directed the last two
reels, and, of course, have been anxiously waiting the

158 FILM FOLK

report from the projecting room, for on the results will
depend my chance of graduation.

And now I must tell of the accident that is responsi-
ble for this story. We were making a mining story
in the mountains back of San Bernardino, and had made
elaborate arrangements for blowing off by dynamite the
side of a high-rocky, canon wall. "We were to photo-
graph the scene from almost underneath the overhang-
ing rock; and, though we fully expected it would fall
clear of us, yet we had built a shack of very heavy tim-
bers to protect us from the loose stones. When the
dynamite was shot, a big rock tore through the roof and
snapped the front leg of the tripod clean off.

GOOD NEWS FEOM THE STUDIO

Magee, the director, dropped to his knees, grabbed the
tripod, and held it in place so that I could film the
scene. He had no more than braced himself, when
crash! the whole works came tumbling down on us.
When they dug us out, they thought it was flowers for
me; but fortunately Magee was only slightly injured,
as a big six-by-six redwood beam protected him from
the load above.

That 's all ! And as I have been here on my poor
old back for a month, I 've had time to realize that when
I left the racing game for the safe and sane profession
of camera man, I did not choose with notable precision.
It is very fortunate for my poor little patient wife that
my face is sad, like a codfish's; for had it been other-
wise, they might have grabbed me off to do rough-comedy
stuff, and then she would have had something to worry
over, for those fellows are always in the hospital. Since

THE VICISSITUDES OF VICTOR 159

I have come here Jimmie Swasey jumped out of a fifth-
story window into a concrete-mixer, and they had to-

Mrs. Goodhue has just bounced in, all joy and excite-
ment, with the cheering news that when I return to the
studio I go as a director at two hundred dollars a
week.

"You more than made good on the Wheeler story,"
she says; "and they think you are a born director."

Well, that 's better than being a dead camera man !

There is, however, a little fly in my ointment. I
learn that the name of my first scenario is : The Hum-
ming-Bird and the Orang-utan. Sounds scandalously
like "The dear little girl and great big brute" stuff!
If it is, I promise this in advance : The big hairy brute
in the Mackinaw coat will not marry the dear little girl.

She will marry the soda-clerk, or somebody else who
is her social equal. There is no earthly reason why a
soda-clerk should be less heroic than a lumberjack —
except for film traditions.

There is a lot of fine heroism right next door, if we
only knew it. My first two-reeler may not go very well
in the lumber camps, but it ought to be a big hit in the
cities; anyway, I 'm going to take a chance. Run in
and see it, if it comes your way. Now don't forget —
The Humming-Bird and the Orang-utan.

IV

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!"
(THE DIRECTOR SPEAKS)

BARRYWORTH in the movies? You 're not seri-
ous, Kirk, surely ! It 's too shameful to contem-
plate! Why do you wish to sentence me to the lowest
rung on the dramatic ladder when I 've been so near the
top? If my health really demands an outdoor life,
as the medicine men declare, I 'U get me a job selling
orange orchards to Eastern tourists or driving an auto-
hearse. But the moving-pictures? Not so long as I
can look the world in its fishy eye and tell it to climb a
tree!"

Yes, I said aU that, and more, less than ten years
ago ; and I meant every word of it. The person to whom
it was addressed was Kirkland, manager of Tobosco
Stock Company; the place was Los Angeles; and the
time, to be exact, was January 5, 1907.

When nowadays you see the name of some world-
famous star aggressively and proudly proclaimed on
great twenty-four-sheet posters as appearing in a new
film drama, it seems incredible that the moving-picture
should have grown from such a contemptible beginning
to one of the highest forms of dramatic expression.
And all in less than a decade !

To make those remarks of mine doubly absurd, here

160

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 161

I am, sitting down to write of the photo-play not as a
carping critic, but as a director — and, as things go, a
fairly successful one.

The wheel of fortune that brought me to this unique
position revolved somewhat as follows:

Four solemn and frowning diagnosticians sat round
my bed at The Players, in New York, and gravely shook
their heads, thereby registering ' ' Not a chance ! ' ' When
they left, my domestic manager came to me and said:
"Stanley Barryworth, those ridiculous men have told
you that your final curtain, is due to ring down in less
than a month ; but I guess they have never heard of the
Arizona Desert, "We leave to-morrow."

THE HEALING POWER OF THE DESEKT

Mrs. Barryworth is small and optimistic; but optim-
ism in this ease was difficult to share, for had I not been
condemned to death by four very expensive doctors?
Manlike, I thought their syndicated wisdom was more
likely to be correct than the hunch of a mere woman.
Besides, even if I did survive and starve the unwelcome
colonists in my poor old bellows, what could an actor
do in the desert?

Here I was, in the fullness of my manhood, one of the
best-known stars of the stage; risen in my work from
property boy to playing Shakesperean roles and high
comedy; big, and apparently as husky as ever. Yet I
"had it"; and the desert was my only chance of survival.

WeU, I '11 say this much for women : their hunches
make the frowning wisdom of the male appear like
the center of a doughnut. The owl looks wise, but his
brains would never give him a headache.

162 FILM FOLK

Besides, who knows as much about a man as his
wife?

When Mrs. Barryworth defied the pathological pilots
and took charge of the sinking ship, she soon had
daughter and me bundled into a train and headed west.
At Nogales we disembarked; and she immediately set to
work and chartered a prairie-schooner, loaded it with
provisions, and in three days we had set sail on the
great American Desert. She had anticipated my starv-
ing estheticism by packing along paints, brushes, and
small canvases; for I was to paiat my way across the
great, gorgeous wastes of Arizona, until we reached
California. Painting had always been my avocation, and
now I was to indulge my soul to its limit.

I wUl not dwell at length upon this voyage, for it had
little to do with the story I am about to tell. But I
picked up immediately, and within a year I was ap-
parently as well and strong as ever. When we finally
landed in Los Angeles I had with me about forty can-
vases, which I immediately put on exhibition in a local
gallery. Though the critics treated me kindly — or chari-
tably — and I made a few sales, the result would scarcely
have permitted my choosing painting as a profession.

Feeling that I had entirely recovered, I accepted the
blandishments of a stock company, which flatteringly
advertised my appearance as a momentous event in
local dramatic circles. Within six months, however, I
abruptly learned that I was not yet well enough to
devote myself to the indoor confinement of the stage,
and had about made up my mind to seek employment
among the cow-punchers back in Arizona when Kirk-

"EEADY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 163

land called me into his office and urged me into a life
of dramatic crime.

I gave my objection to this urge in the first paragraph ;
but Kirkland, with more vision, believed there was a
great future in motion-pictures, and he was not at aU
impressed with my very superior attitude.

"Don't get too sniffy, old top," he said; "it won't be
many years before actors better than you will be cavort-
ing before the camera. Films have already killed melo-
drama, and they '11 go after the big stuff, too. This
fellow Dodds, who wants you with him, is going to do
notable things with canned drama; and if you take my
advice, you '11 jump in and grow up with him in this
newest of the arts. Your shame can be temporarily con-
cealed by sworn secrecy, and grease-paint."

After all, there seemed to be something sporting about
the adventure; and I finally agreed to meet this chap
Dodds, who was the director of a moving-picture com-
pany pioneering in California.

I found him a quiet, modest, gentlemanly fellow, and
I was very much impressed with his seriousness and
artistic optimism; so, finally, I accepted his offer. I
was to begin anonymously in outdoor pictures, and was
secretly to receive one hundred and twenty-five dollars
a week. This was less than half of my salary when I
was in my dramatic glory, but four times as much as
the highest-salaried lead in the picture company. How-
ever, the roles I was to play would at least permit me
to live in the open; and, beside, I almost shared Dodds 's
hope of a splendid future for the film drama. By occa-
sionally using Mrs. Barryworth in character parts, and

164 FILM FOLK

my daughter as a juvenile, we all felt that we could
at least live. Many people did not consider this im-
portant ; but we did.

EOUGH-AND-READT STUDIO METHODS

The climax studio was a strange affair — a few shacks,
an office, a dressing-room, and a square platform with-
out sides or top. The cast was made up of cowboys,
Indians, and a few actors, real and alleged. However,
they were aU adequate to the character of work the
studio was doing, for the pictures were mostly holdups,
train robberies, Indian fighting, and rodeos. Besides
"Westerns," they were turning out comics — so called.

It was all lowbrow stuff, but purveying with profit to
the taste of that period.

Contrary to the popular tenderfoot stories of the fic-
tion writers, I was received cordially and generously.
The cowboys did not think me a sissy because I could not
bust an outlaw. Bronco-busting is as much a matter of
special training as trap-shooting or billiard-playing, and
the boys did not expect me to risk my neck in any vain
four-flushing; in fact, I found them much better-man-
nered and more kindly than I had been led to believe
from stories I had read of them. Furthermore, they
recognized my particular excellence and would watch
my dramatic teehnic with the wistfulness of children.

But I learned right away that good acting was not a
first requisite in my new art, nor repression, nor quiet
subtlety of expression. Action, action, all the time!
The stories were usually violent or mawkishly sentimen-
tal ; but always tempestuous.

"BEADY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 16&

As our locations were usually in the mountains or on
the desert, we had small use for "sets." The side of
a bam, with a few borrowed pictures nailed on ; a carpet
laid on the ground; a couple of chairs; a table, and
behold an "interior" of the sheriff's home! A volume
of Dante's Inferno served as a Bible, a law boob, dic-
tionary, and for purposes less polite, in all scenes where
a boob was needed. Sometimes, when we wanted to be
very splashy, we had a set painted by a real scene-
painter. The men were "hired off" the legitimate
stage; and, having worbed under its traditions and
artificial lights, they did not change their technic to
meet the fierce white light of day.

As we had no diffusers, our interiors were made in
strong sunlight, which often resulted in shadows of
the actors pointing east, while shadows on the scenery
headed west. Instead of the painted mountains receding
in atmospheric perspective through the open door or
window, they loobed libe little painted mountains only
a few feet away. Even when we attempted realism by
sticbing a eucalyptus branch in the ground, libe as not
it would cast a shadow on the sby !

These sets, painted on canvas, would shabe libe aspen
leaves every time anybody opened or closed a door.
An adobe wall or prison tower would suffer perpetual
seismic disturbances whenever the action became at all
rough. As we had no windbreabs, curtains and papers
would fly about as though a tornado had come tearing
through the transom.

"We built one set, on the top of a department store
downtown, which consisted of four "flats," eight feet

166 FILM FOLK

high, with some tobacco advertisement tacked on the
wall. This was an interior for a scene in a modem
Carmen story.

To the film fans of to-day, used to the magnificent
sets of the great feature plays, those of the early days
would seem grotesquely inadequate and funny ; yet they
were most pleasing to the pop-eyed peasantry of that
uncultured period.

I recall one picture made by a certain studio, which
was incorrect in almost every conceivable detail. It
was a Puritan story, in which the costumes ranged
all the way from the Queen Elizabeth doublet to the
powdered wig of the eighteenth century. The Puritans
made the sign of the cross upon entering church, and
when they were attacked by mounted Sioux Indians
in war;bonnets, they staved off the enemy with rifles
loaded at the breech.

Of course the least research would have informed
the director that Massachusetts Indians shaved their
scalps and had no horses. Even a school-boy should
not have made the other blunders.

Those Western pictures, made in Eastern studios,
where the cowboys used bang-tailed park-horses and
English saddles, and the sheriff looked like a New
England "constibule," got by east of the AUeghanies
and in Europe ; but out here they were howled at.

Scenario departments were yet unknown, every direc-
tor writing his own stories. Actors were paid from fif-
teen to thirty dollars a week ; and, as can be seen from
our stage equipment, our overhead expenses were very
small. Under these primitive conditions we began to
turn out five or six thrillers a month, very few of them

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 167

costing more than four hundred dollars, and some as
low as a hundred. A famous director, who, it is said,
has spent more than half a million dollars on one story,
told me that the first picture he directed cost just
seventy dollars.

THE WHETSTONE OP ENDEAVOR

The queer thing about the terrible stuff we were
making was that it sold like hot cakes, and our Eastern
bosses frowned upon further elaboration, expense, or
"highbrow" pictures.

I may say, in beginning, that you might have had
better pictures sooner, if even these first directors —
that is, some of them — had been allowed any expression
of their real artistry. But always back East there were
men grouped round a mahogany table who were inter-
ested only in cumulative nickels; they were the abso-
lute arbiters of the stuff we made.

How we struggled and fought against the ignorance
and inertia of our management! Dodds, for instance,
one day tried some close-up stuff, only to get a letter
from the New York office telling him not to repeat
this offense. "Who ever heard of men talking when
they were cut off at the knees? Show their feet!"
At another time we made a whole story where the
camera deliberately threw the background out of focus
in order to concentrate on the figures ; and the film came
back with an order to retake eighteen scenes and see
that every nail in the background showed plainly.

However, we managed to put one over on the New
York office. We made Damon and Pythias, but in order
to fool them we modernized it into a hair-pants story;

168 FILM FOLK

yet we retained the motive of the classic from which it
was adapted.

I do not wish to imply that Dodds and I were the
only ones who wanted to make beautiful pictures.
There were several men struggling with their bosses
and the public taste, and it is interesting to note that
those men are at present at the top of the heap. The
director whose first picture cost seventy dollars made
even those cheap productions artistic; but he never
really expressed himself until he was able to command
his own money.

It is fashionable among certain directors to think
that public taste is so low that it does not pay to
address pictures to a higher appreciation. Most of the
early directors believed this ; but their estimate was based
upon an abnormal condition, for a few companies ab-
solutely controlling the market could give the people
anything they pleased, and they had to take it. Only
an open market could really determine what the public
wanted; but competition in the early days was negligi-
ble.

Among the "wildcat" and "independent" companies
stiniggling for existence there were a few men of vision
— ^more, I thiok, than we had in our dear little Trust;
but they were unable to market their pictures profitably,
while we turned out the worst pictures imagiaable and
still made money.

"When, along about 1910 or 1911, the camera patents
which had given us our monopoly began to lapse, in-
dependent companies came into the game, and with
their competition there began the most brilliant period
of motion-picture industry. Competition may be wicked

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 169

in the struggle for the staff of life, but for things of the
mind and heart it is the whetstone of highest endeavor.

Pretty soon, all over the United States, companies
sprang up overnight; any fellow with a few thousand
dollars could hire a camera man, throw up a studio,
and start taking pictures.

"With the multiplication of companies, which came
like mushrooms, attendance increased, and during the
next five years there was a veritable debauch of picture
making. Everybody made money, and competition com-
pelled spending it. Those were the golden days of the
industry.

Dodds and I disloyally welcomed our new rivals, for
we felt that competition would force our mahogany
bosses to new and finer efforts. And, sure enough, we
built a magnificent studio of concrete and steel, the
finest, at that time, in the land. Then we started to
spend money on equipment and personnel; and, the
legitimate stage being in the dumps, we were able to
corral a few fairly good actors.

We spent lavishly on everything except stories; these
were supposed to be of little account. If we had a
beautiful he-doll and a popular baby-doll, all we had to
do was to provide a bunch of action in order to get a
picture. This we did by ourselves. Dodds, being a
busy person, usually unloaded this work upon my fair
old back, and thus he was the cause of my becoming
"one of the most prolific dramatists of the twentieth
century." I sometimes wrote as many as three great
dramas in a week! Any unusual occurrence would
serve to hang a story on. I would often film the event
and write the story afterward.

170 FILM FOLK

Once, while doing some pirate stuff on Santa Cruz
Island, we learned of the wreck of the Santa Rosa, at
Point Conception. So Dodds loaded me, with a hero,
heroine, villain, and camera man, into a launch, and
told me to beat it over and get some pictures. Neither
the villain nor the camera man could run a gasoline
engine — this was before the day when even the extra
man has his "motah"; so little Stanley became the
engineer of a fragile little craft that put to sea on the
tail of a great storm. It was sixty miles across the rag-
ing main to the wreck of the coaster, and the only rea-
son we ever got there was because of a special Deity
who looks after fools. "We were very frightened, espe-
cially as our engine went dead about fifteen miles from
shore and we began to drift toward New Zealand, seven
thousand miles off our port bow.

REALISTIC HARDSHIPS OF THE SEA

Besides my function as navigator and chief engineer,
I had also to work at my trade of dramatist; for it was
up to me to write a scenario for our wreck picture.
This was rather difficult, as I did not know whether I
should have a hero or heroine with me when we made a
landing. They were both so ill that I feared their
prayers for death would be answered. The wrenching
that those poor children gave their plumbing speaks
wonders for the human anatomy.

The camera man also grew very white round the gills
during those four hours when we drifted helplessly in
the swell and wind. He lay on his back and looked at
heaven, but said never a word. But the villain became
more sinister every minute. He held his stomach, but

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 171

lost his temper. If he ever got ashore! Well, the
things he promised are too terrible to contemplate; but
the worst that could have befallen me was to have him
beat it and leave me villainless, just when I needed
villainy the most.

Having steered our course since sundown by the
lights of Point Conception, and later by the fires the
refugees had built upon the beach, we reached our
destination at two a. m.

It 's queer how everybody's point of view changed
in the warmth of those fires and the thrilling stories of
the folk about them. The camera man had come back
to earth — ^figuratively as well ; the hero and heroine were
glad to be alive; and even the villain did not want to
desert his part.

At sunrise they were still taking off passengers by
means of a tugboat and life-saving apparatus; so that
was our chance. The sea had gone down enough to
permit a trip to the steamer. We made about ten
scenes aboard, even to the loading of the lovers into the
breeches-buoy. Then we went back to the beach and
made a bully one of the sweethearts coming ashore,
while the villain rushed up and cut the cable, so that
they went plunging into the sea. On this occasion the
picture was made only up to the point where the villain
starts to cut. The rest of it was staged six weeks
later in the harbor off San Pedro.

That was one of the best wreck pictures ever done;
even the story was pretty strong, for had I not put
heart — and other things — into it? Chances to get
scenes like this were rare, but we could always build
stories round the laying of a corner-stone or a colored

172 FILM FOLK

funeral. Is it any wonder we never bought scenarios,
when we could write 'em as we went along? To be
sure, many of the stories were pretty punk, but so
great was the public demand that even this tremendous
outpouring of one-reelers was insufficient.

The comedies of this period had even less structure
than the dramas. A tramp, dude, burglar, policeman,
girl, boy, father, mother, yap farmer, and Chinaman
were the dramatis personce of nine-tenths of the com-
ics. Any two or three of this cast would start out with
a camera man in the morning and, without the least
idea of what the day would bring forth, would cut didos
whenever and wherever a dido suggested itself.

The one motive in the lives of these alleged comedians
was to pursue or to be pursued. All the jumpy slap-
sticking of the first two hundred feet was a mere pre-
lude to the pursuit of the burglar, which, starting with
a single householder, accumulated like a rolling snow-
ball until the whole village — nursemaids, police, char-
women, and bankers — went tearing through the streets
in the most undignified fashion. If the leading pursuer
fell, the others, instead of running round him, piled up
on his wriggling form like football scrimmagers. We
all laughed at these sprightly races ; and if the pursuing
bunch ran into a scaffolding and spilled the mortar, or
blindly ran off the end of the dock into the drink, we
howled our heads off.

LOW COSTS AND HIGH PBOPITS

A company near us, which did nothing but comics,
made arrangements with the fire department to turn in
all alarms at the studio, so that in case of a picturesque

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 173

burning they could beat it out and make some foolish
scenes. So enthusiastically had the neighborhood hook-
and-ladder company entered into the spirit of the thing
that on one occasion they loaned all their rubber coats
and helmets to the cut-ups; and when an alarm was
turned in the actors arrived at the burning dwelling fully
equipped for their comedy, while the firemen had to put
out the fire with consequent singeing and drenching.

Another time a telephone call announced that the oil
fields near Bakersfield were on fire; so there was a
chance to pull some real diabolism. They sent a camera
man and a villain over there at sixty miles an hour,
and made a picture of the dreadful man setting fire to
a well ; which act resulted in the burning of the country
for miles round.

These comedies superseded the old camera tricks,
wherein the feathers flew back into the pillow and swim-
mers popped feet foremost out of the water and landed
on the spring-board. Comics never ran more than five
hundred feet and sometimes were as short as eighty.
They were called split reels, and were usually tacked
on to some drama that was shy the footage necessary to
bring it up to the standard one thousand feet. Crude
and elemental as these pictures were, they contained
the germ of real comedy, as I shall show later on. The
drama lacked story and structure, but it had the
"punch" — ^that quality which to the bourgeois mind is
so essential in a picture.

These were the great days of the moving-picture!
Life was full and splendid. As our work was only
vaguely planned, we never quite knew what the im-
mediate future held for us. It is true that art languished

174 FILM FOLK

and we were simple purveyors of punch; but our stuff
was selling.

Selling? Why, pictures that cost only a thousand
dollars would net the manufacturer twenty thousand
dollars! And even though the Trust had been broken
and independents everywhere were making pictures,
we had the great plants and were still supreme, because
of the momentum of our equipment and our names.
When we began to make two-reel and three-reel pictures
— features, so called — ^we started to spend money and
became wildly extravagant. Some of our stuff cost as
much as a dollar and a half a foot ! A three-reeler f oi:
twelve hundred dollars? Stupendous! And to think
that in less than six years we should see productions
costing close to half a million dollars, or forty dollars a
foot!

But our little twelve-hundred-dollar pictures were the
grand little money-makers. I happen to know of one
that netted the company more than ninety thousand
dollars.

It was these great profits that wrought such ominous
consequences. Knowing that we were making fortunes
for our bosses, we were not particularly careful of our
expenditures. True, we had not gone into the expense of
the tremendous sets of the present-day pictures, nor were
salaries insane; but when we wanted a certain location
we went and got it. A director would send a company
of twenty-five a distance of two hundred miles to get a
single scene. We bought properties, rented trains and
steamers, with the utmost prodigality. Yet our earnings
kept miles ahead of our expenditures.

The public had gone movie-mad ; but its madness did

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 175

not make us a bit mad. "We wrecked trains, rescued
maids, pursued burglars, upset apple-carts, with the most
joyous abandon. Whereas before 1910 there were only
about eight or ten manufacturers, with perhaps five or
six companies each, by 1913 there were hundreds of
them, some of the largest having as many as twenty
companies. From whence, then, came aU the directors ?
Actors could be recruited from the stage ; but the stage
could not possibly supply the thousands of directors
who came into being almost overnight.

Well, they came from here, there, and everywhere.
Of the five directors in a neighboring studio, one had
been a cow-puncher, one a policeman, one a messenger-
boy, one an undertaker — curiously enough, he was mak-
ing comics — and only one came from the stage. Others
had gone into the game as extra men, scene-painters,
camera-kids and publicity men; and, since there was a
constantly increasing demand for more directors, they
were recruited right on the lot. I actually know of a
chauffeur, with no more experience than that of pilot-
ing alcoholic beach-parties, who was "chaufSng" one
morning and directing the next.

Needless to say, drama that is purveyed by the butcher,
the baker, and the candlestick-maker, is likely to have
about the dramatic standards of those tradesmen; yet
in all walks of life Opportunity sometimes raps on the
door of one who is equal to it. A few of our most popu-
lar directors were rescued from these humble occupa-
tions and are now great artists. The success of some
of them is one of the most hopeful things about democ-
racy. Many mute, inglorious Miltons would not remain
mute if they had an opportunity to siag.

176 FILM FOLK

I know of one chap who, only two years ago, was a
butcher's boy, delivering meat at a certain studio. He
went to the managing director and told him the Park
Commission was going to drain a lake in one of the
parks, and that he had written a story round it in which
the villain would open the gates, allowing the water
to escape, while he and the heroine would submit to
being dragged through the black muck of the bottom by
a rope from shore. The stunt sounded messy enough
to be promising; so the director let the lad make the
picture. So well did he do it that to-day he is getting
two hundred and fifty dollars a week, and earning
every cent of it.

Though uneducated and uncultured in the general
acceptance of those terms, he had received a splendid
education in the University of the Street, and knew
human nature to a rare degree. Having a whimsical
slant on the foibles of men, he now directs some of the
most riotous comedies at which the world laughs.

DODDS'S END

But these men were uncommon five years ago. The
average director produced pictures no higher than his
brow, and many of them had brows like old Pithecanthro-
pus erectus. Coarse and vulgar men abused their enor-
mous powers shamefully. They would roar and swear,
hire and fire, at their own sweet will.

Fortunately, at our studio, Dodds, who was an artist
and a gentleman, had permeated the place with an
atmosphere of joy and decency. In the most exasper-
ating circumstances he never lost his temper or raised his

Courtesy of Artcraft Picture Corporation

Cecil De Mille coaching Mary Pickford

"EBADY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 177

voice. Had lie lived, he would to-day have heen one of
the great men of the profession ; but alas ! he was most
tragically killed at the studio by a Japanese gardener
who went suddenly insane.

This real tragedy, happening in a place where for two
years we had been pulling stage violence of all kinds, had
a curious psychological consequence. When the boy
opened fire on Dodds, who was sitting at a desk, an actor
who on the screen had always been applauded for his
splendid heroics made his get-away faster than I am
telling it. And the fellow who showed real heroism by
jumping in and overwhelming the heavily armed mur-
derer had probably been hissed at more than any stage
villain of the time. He was 'way out by the gate, doing
some roping stunts with the cowboys, when he heard the
shot ; but he knew by its sound that it was a ball cart-
ridge, and with one bound he was in the studio, grappling
with the Jap boy.

Among the women the same contrasts were noticeable.
Several of them screamed and ran away in abject terror ;
yet one red-headed lass, who has since become famous for
her nerve, daring, and art, sat perfectly still, though one
of the bullets crashed through the window right behind
her.

Dodds 's death cast a gloom over the studio for many
months. It had the effect of a stimulant upon me, how-
ever; for I was more than ever anxious to realize the
ideals that the poor fellow believed were latent in the
pictures. I had been cooperating with him for several
years and had directed many stories in which I had acted
the lead. Not from choice, however, as the dual role was

178 FILM FOLK

too strenuous; but the fact was, I had become better
known as a lead than as a director, and the eastern office
wanted me in the former role.

By this time, too, I had entirely lost my snippy atti-
tude toward the pictures, and I rather proudly permitted
my identity to become known. True, I received many
letters and occasional visits from the co-stars of my legit
days, and they usually expended much interest, but more
pity, to find me sunk so low; but I had only a few years'
waiting to find them, one after the other, rapping at the
door.

I have said that the power of the director in the early
days was almost absolute, and this was true in his rela-
tion to his producing force ; but he had one serious check
upon him, and that was the manufacturer. With us,
this overlord usually lived in the East; so the friction
was often most exasperating. The owner demanded a
certain type of picture, and he, in turn, got his taste
from the exhibitor. Of course the exhibitor got his point
of view from his picture fans and was loath to try any-
thing new.

These men insisted that their patrons demanded the
rough stuff ; so our bosses spent our artistic lives in every
kind of violence imaginable.

It was a most hopeless inertia and conservatism that
well-nigh made some of us give up in despair. I recall
our first efforts to put over a two-reel story. The ex-
hibitors fought us tooth and nail, and it was only after
a most threatening controversy that we were finally per-
mitted to make one. Then, as now, the manufacturers
and exhibitors underestimated the public taste, for the
two-reelers went famously; then three-reelers — four—

"EEADY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 179

five ; and now we have pictures in ten, twelve, and four-
teen reels.

With the beginning of the multiple reel we had to have
actual stories, two thousand feet of action not being
enough to sustain interest; and we therefore found it
necessary to buy scenarios and to dramatize popular
magazine tales.

"Within a very short time the public taste had so
changed, and the fans had become so sophisticated, that
more and more care had to be exercised in all our pro-
ductions. Painted scenery gave way to solid sets built
of real material, and the cost of productions went up and
up. Also, with the feature picture there came into the
business the stars of the stage, at first the lesser lights
and finally the greatest of them all. Some of the stars
drew much bigger salaries than even the directors ; nev-
ertheless, we made money. Notwithstanding the fact
that the stars drew more than we did, our powers were
still supreme.

ARTISTIC WORK MANGLED

Though we were all-powerful, our troubles were mani-
fold. We were, as yet, either writing most of our own
stories or adapting those we bought; and often I would
lie awake until the small hours of the morning, organiz-
ing in my mind the continuity of my scenario. Then I
had to order and supervise all sets, choose my casts, and
often seek my locations.

We might get a picture half made, when the weather
would change, and we would have to dismiss the cast for
a week or more, and then renew the taking of the picture.
This was always dangerous, for costumes or props might

180 FILM FOLK

be mislaid, or the set was struck so as to make room for
some studio stuff that could be taken in the rain. Then
came the task of rebuilding the first set exactly as it was
before ; or, to cap the climax, the second lead would get
his hair cut ; or some other idiot would pi the picture in
some outrageous way.

Perhaps we would employ some outside person for a
certain character, because of his type, and he would do
very well at first, and fall down entirely in the big scene ;
then we would either have to employ a new person to do
the previous scene over, or skin down the part to nothing,
with the chance of spoUiag the story. Often, after we
sent the film Bast, we received most of it back for re-
takes, because the eastern laboratory would claim that
the film was weak or scratched, for there was always
a feud on between our eastern and western laboratories ;
or because the big boss couldn't see the feet of the hero
in a certain scene; or somebody else couldn't read a
street number a block away.

Never, by any chance, did we see our pictures run in
positive, or with the titles. These were made in the
eastern laboratory.

When, finally, we went to the theater to see our child
projected on the screen, we would find that certain scenes
had been cut, or new titles substituted. As if this was
not enough to break our hearts, careless projectors would
tear the film, cut out the torn parts and splice the ends
together again, with the result that a person sitting at a
table would suddenly jump way across the room. Pro-
jectors often even deliberately cut several feet out of
a film, if they happened to be enamored of the girl in
the picture.

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 181

Remember this, girls : Whenever your friend Harry,
who projects down at the Excelsior Theater, gives you
three feet of film of your favorite actor, the chances
are that he has all but ruined a scene that was the result
of infinite pains and labor.

Usually the whole artistic effect of a picture depends
upon the tempo, and we would make and take our scenes
with the utmost care that this might be correct. Im-
agine our esthetic joy in going to a theater and seeing
our people go through their scenes as though the whole
cast was on casters! This would be accomplished by
projecting the picture faster than the standard speed,
and was done for two purposes : one, to rush through the
program in order to corral a new handful of nickels ; and
the other, to put pep into the show. Punch and pep;
how I hate those words ! I firmly believe they have been
the greatest curse to our art. Think of putting pep into
Hamlet !

SOME EARLY TROUBLES

Another of our earliest troubles was in getting permis-
sion to use certain locations. Before the films became
"respectable," people were very tight across their chests
about allowing their estates to be used as backgrounds
for violence and rough-stuff comedies. It was almost
impossible to get public officials to appear publicly or to
gain their consent for any picture purposes. Ex-Presi-
dent Taft helped immensely in this respect. Seeing the
historical possibilities of the films, and being too genial
to refuse, he permitted the first official pictures to be
made ; and during his Presidency he often permitted di-
rectors to use the White House. Since then, the respect-

182 FILM FOLK

ability he lent our business has opened the way to every
reasonable demand we make.

But there are certain locations that are becoming
harder and harder to get. At present it is the saloon
exterior in California. "When the wet-and-dry agitation
began there some time ago, the saloon men realized that
it was mighty bad for their cause to permit the use of
their places for moving-pictures, for the reason that they
were almost invariably made the background for some
form of crime or intemperance. Now we have to build
our own saloons.

The success of the feature story soon began to make
the one-reeler less popular, and almost every studio
turned to the manufacture of the multiple reel. A
feature story, at first, was intended to dramatize some
well-known popular novel or stage success, or to exploit
the personality of a famous star; but it soon grew to
mean any film that was more than two or three reels
long. Many of the so-called feature films of to-day
are nothing more than the old one-reeler padded out ; in
fact, many of them are retaken from one-reelers the com-
panies hope you have forgotten. But the exhibitors are
feature-crazy, and it 's pretty hard now to sell a one-
reeler, no matter how good it is.

The feature film, however, gave the director the chance
he had always longed for: a fine story, good actors, un-
limited money, and time in which to make the picture.
These were the grand old days for the reckless producer
and still more reckless director.

Money was pouring in so fast that the cost of produc-
tion was hardly considered. Great companies of ex-
pensive actors were kept on salary, and often would work

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 183

but a few days a month. Furniture was bought, huge
sets built, and armies of men employed with almost in-
sane recklessness. Trains were wrecked, real ships sunk ;
aeroplanes, touring-cars, and great buildings were tossed
into the dump, just to get a few feet of realism.

I recall one instance of a fellow, directing in one of
the largest studios here, who employed more than two
hundred people for a ball-room scene. The script called
for the tango, or some new dance ; but when the orchestra
struck up, it was found that only a few could dance mod-
ern steps. Rather than change to a waltz, which every-
body could do, the director lost his temper, ordered the
scene stopped, and then announced that the company was
to report at the studio daily for a week, as he was going
to have that scene if it necessitated employing a dancing-
master to teach the whole cast! This he did; and that
one little thirty-foot piece of film cost the company six
thousand dollars.

Another chap ordered thirty-six tons of coal for a
mine picture. His assistant, hoping to save money,
bought six tons for the foreground and thirty tons of
crushed rock for the rest. This, when washed with
lamp-black, looked exactly like coal. When the director
was told of the deception — he never would have noticed
it otherwise — he ordered the scene stopped and every-
body sent away until he had real coal, by heck! That
kind of realism is pretty expensive.

This condition could n 't last, for the sheer spending of
money had its limits. Only companies of unlimited re-
sources could finance the huge productions; and sooner
or later the fans would cease to marvel at the big stuif
and would demand quality rather than quantity. Even

184 FILM FOLK

the comic fellows are beginning to feel the reaction from
useless expenditures, and are more bent now upon real
comedy than the destruction of valuable property.

THE CUSTAED-PIE MOTIF

After the "pursuit" picture, directors were at their
wit's end until the most famous impresario of knock-
about fun invented the motif of the custard pie. A cus-
tard-pie bombardment has two very strong elements of
humor concealed in its action: one is surprise; and the
other is messiness. There are lots of "nice" people who
think it is vulgar and outrageous to laugh at such
elemental humor; yet there is something fundamentally
funny in seeing a body's face projected through the soft
goo of a custard pie.

If you do not believe this, try it some day on your
neighbor when he pushes his head over the fence to say
good-morning or to borrow the lawn-mower. Hit him
full-on, butter side out, with a custard pie, and see
whether the result is not funny — or tragic ; a hair often
divides the two. If you try this experiment, you will
learn that only a complete bull's-eye is funny. If the
pie should hit on the edge, or only partially break, the
joke is held in suspense and spoiled; but if you "moon
him," I assure you the neighbors for miles around will
all laugh. My, the number of custard pies that we have
wasted while one of the comedians perfected his technic
and aim! A good custard-pie thrower is invaluable in
the comics. It is queer that the pie must be custard.

This same director also invented the comedy police,
who have had more trouble with the real police than any
actors on the screen. The humor of the wild exploits of

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 185

these volatile officers of the law is based upon two motifs :
one is the collapse of dignity; and the other is a kid
desire in the hearts of nearly all of us to see authority
get it in the neck.

There has been no great comic inspiration in the last
few years ; we can't laugh forever at the pursuit, the pie,
or the police. So the comic studios, taking their con-
tagion from the drama, have gone in to spend huge sums
on sets.

The money blown in on a few feet of film is incredible.
Only a month ago one of our directors was going to do a
comic in which the fellow on horseback chases a girl ; and
just as he gets to the edge of a cliff she ducks, and the
horse with his man-rider jumps over the cliff into the
ocean. At first they could n 't find a jumping horse ; and,
as the authorities would n't permit pushing the horse off,
they had to train one. It took two weeks in the big
studio tank, going up a few feet each day, until the horse
got to the high dive.

There is an old rumor that once upon a time a mouse
ran up a clock. Our comic director, believing that the
clock in question was on a lady's stocking, attempted to
repeat the feat for a two-reeler he was making. For
three days a camera man stood at alert attention while
the lady sat in receptive horror and a foolish little mouse
ran everywhere except up the clock. Every inducement
was resorted to, so that the mouse might fulfill the nurs-
ery rhyme. Even a piece of cheese — ^the kind that mice
are reported to relish — ^was balanced on the lady's knee;
yet he preferred the lower altitudes. After all this labor
and expense the result was finally attained by trick-
ery.

186 FILM FOLK

THE DEARTH OF COMEDY MATERIAL

Bears and monkeys are sometimes put through months
of training to get but one or two scenes. The sets neces-
sary to show the flooding of a hotel from top to bottom,
where the guests are all washed out into the sewer, are
also very expensive.

And now in the comics comes the same reaction, from
great expenditures and startling destruction to some-
thing less expensive, but with more brains. Comedies of
situation are superseding the slapstick and the custard
pie. Our greatest difficulty is in getting stories. We
have the plants and we have the comedians; but where,
oh, where is our boasted national humor ? A perusal of
the scenarios sent to the comic studio is one of the sad-
dest and most lugubrious experiences I have ever under-
taken.

It is difficult enough, heaven knows, to get good
dramatic stories. One reason, no doubt, is because situ-
ations are fairly limited, and the output of the studios in
the last five years has been so enormous that there is
mighty little left which has not been done. Good plays
for the legitimate drama are difficult to get, and our
problem may perhaps be appreciated when it is known
that one studio will sometimes turn out in a month as
many plays as New Tork produces upon the stage in a
year.

But, if dramas are hard to get, comedies are even
harder. Every script that comes in is put into all the
test tubes in the laboratory to find even the germs of a
good comic situation ; if, perchance, one is discovered, the

"EEADY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 187

author is encouraged with enthusiasm, hope, and money.
Yet, because our comedians either do not understand the
needs of the comics, or because their humor finds expres-
sion in some other way, the stuff sent in is almost hope-
less. It therefore devolves upon the poor, worked-out
director to frame most of his own stories.

Now that my place as an actor has been taken by any
one of the great army of film favorites, and I have become
only a publicly inconspicuous director, Mrs. Barryworth
is anxious that I shall seek fresh immortality as a comic-
scenario writer; but alas! I fear I am just like the rest
of my countrymen, whose wits seem brighter in repartee,
exaggerated metaphor, and whimsical observation than
when they take their pens in hand.

EGO-PERCENTAGES

Had I been seeking fame in this tumultuous old world
of ours, I should never have given up my job as a leading
man; for if there is any public interest in the affairs of
the director, it has never come to my attention in the
slightest degree.

The paiuts are far more interesting to the world than
the painter. When I compare with my present corre-
spondence the letters I used to receive as the ravishing
hero of the hair-pants stories, I am forced to believe that
romance and notoriety are not for us. It is sad but true
that the only photographs of me which are still cherished
repose upon the dressers of maiden ladies who have ro-
mantic hopes that are eight to ten years overdue. If the
press-agent sends out a story that a certain film favorite
eschews onions, all the fans in the country are worked

188 FILM POLK

up over the momentous news ; while if it was learned that
one of the directors used perfume on his pancakes, no-
body would care a bean one way or another.

This does not mean that we are entirely overlooked.
The trade papers keep our names quite prominently be-
fore the profession, and our mail is mostly from actors —
ham and otherwise — ^who remind us of their amazing
qualities, with the hope that we will send for them at
once. The love of the human paints for the painter is
often very touching.

It is because the general public takes so little interest
in our personalities that I have deliberately refrained
from obtruding my own importance, and have laid more
stress upon our failures, successes, obligations, and hopes.
So it is a sense of proportion, rather than innate modesty,
that makes me stand behind the camera while I take this
picture of Movie Land.

Maybe you have heard that movie folk are modest. If
so, that information is incorrect ; for so well do we think
of ourselves that we have reduced our especial worth to
an elaborate system of mathematics. One of the spright-
liest indoor sports that engages all studios where films
are made is to figure the percentage of our relative values
to the success of the pictures. Ask a leading man what
he thinks of his work, and he will reply: "Well, I
should say the actor is seventy-five per cent, of the pic-
ture, the story about fifteen, and the director ten."
Some even go so far as to represent the director by a
minus sign.

Then up speaks the author: "You fellows make me
tired ! I 'd like to know what you 'd do without a good
story! The best director in the world can't direct you

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 189

beautiful dolls to do nothing! My table makes the
author sixty per cent., the director thirty, and the actor
ten."

At this point we produce our schedule, which makes
the director fifty per cent., the story forty-five, and the
actor five. Then the fireworks!

I '11 have to admit that in the last few years my branch
of the profession has lost somewhat in importance, for
when I first began in the pictures, the director was the
whole works; he represented probably ninety per cent.,
the actor ten, and the story nothing. The story is the
factor that has gained in importance. It is true that a
few actors are so enormously popular that they can get
by with a poor story and rather indifferent directing.

There is, however, another angle to this fact that seems
to me to be pertinent. Often the management will get a
spasm of efficiency and employ a star for only a few
scenes ; then it is up to the director to pad out the story
so that by spreading the star very thin he can get the
necessary footage. Or, on the other hand, the big boss,
having an expensive star on the pay-roll, will want him
on the screen all the time. So the director has to prune
down every other part in order to accomplish this weird
result. In either event the story suffers and the direc-
tor's artistry is woefully handicapped.

I said in my estimate that the actor was only five per
cent, of the film. Privately, I do not really mean this,
but my modest figure always gets a wonderful rise out of
the actors, and I love to hear them rave. The fact is, a
film success depends upon many factors, the failure of
any of which can ruin the picture. Given a good story,
capable acting, intelligent direction, artistic sets, and fine

190 FILM FOLK

photography, the result will be splendid. But, oh, the
temperamental storms that have raged about those per-
centages !

THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES

So far as the director is concerned, there is really no
standard by which the excellence of his work can be
ascertained, except by the result. One obtains success
in one way, and another by quite opposite methods.
Some directors are excitable, some phlegmatic, some
genial. We have one woman director who has arrived
famously and has handled some of the greatest stars in
filmdom. There may be no sex in brains, but there is in
temperament; and there is no doubt that much of her
achievement is due to her feminine point of view,
especially her uncanny understanding of the male.
This woman stoutly maintains that she has a masculine
mind ; but listen to this story :

Her lead in one of the pictures was a famous foreign
star, and, starlike, she thought rather tenderly of one of
the men of the cast ; but alas ! he was only second lead.

Now it happened that a very beautiful white costume
was made, and the lead and the second both cherished it.
Of course the lead had the first call; but what of the
foreign lady? She wanted her boy to have it. After
a great to-do and much talkly talk, it was finally put up
to the director. She, femininely wise, walked over, whis-
pered something to the star, and then answered :

"Of course Mr. Blank shall wear the costume; he is
the lead and is entitled to the suit if he wishes it."

The star, having been tipped, acquiesced gracefully;
but the second lead was very peevish and stood round

"EEADY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 191

biting his finger nails and looking quite distraught.
When the lead, radiantly triumphant, appeared in his
gorgeous white velvet jacket and panties, the director
eyed him critically.

"What 's the matter, Mrs. S ? Don't you care

for it?" asked he.

"Oh, yes," she answered; "but I think it is a little
short in the knees, and the coat doesn't fit very well
round the neck; it makes you look bottle-shouldered.
However, it will do, I guess. Turn round. Well, the
truth is, Mr. Blank, it is even a little worse in the back ;
but I can cut that scene where you have your back to the
camera, though it 's a good close-up for you. Then, in
that other scene, where you sit downstage, I can mask
the legs by a table — "

The lead waited for nothing further. He was gone;
and in ten minutes he returned with an armful of white
clothes, which he tossed to the second lead, who sheep-
ishly went off to his dressing-room and put them on.
When he returned, the star lady from Russia fairly ate
him with her eyes. Though he was exactly the build of
his rival, the trousers, curiously enough, were "long
enough," and the coat fitted "splendidly" ! So, at least,
the director said. And she insists that she has a mascu-
line mind !

For several years this woman and her husband directed
together with great success. To anyone who knows
what a personal thing directing is, this feat is a startling
accomplishment. The nearest score to their record is
that of a man and wife in a Chicago studio who joined
forces for just twenty minutes. They say that when he
came to at the receiving hospital, and looked up and be-

192 FILM POLK

held the nurse, he ducked his head under the bedclothes,
as though the poor girl was going to strike him with a
skillet.

ART IN HANDLING CROWDS

In handling the fragile temperaments of actors the
female is more wonderful than the male; but when it
comes to resourcefulness in a situation, the male is often
remarkable.

"We were making some scenes at Eedondo one day and
were trying to get a little girl to walk disconsolately
along the beach, no one noticing her. After working for
nearly an hour in an effort to get the people to walk by
without stopping or rubbering into the camera, or at
the little girl Ed Donlon, who was directing, called two
of the men of the cast together and arranged that they
should start a fight about fifty yards up the beach. The
pugilists came from opposite directions, met, and began
loud, vulgar abuse of each other. Needless to say,
everybody parading the boardwalk looked over in the
direction of the brawl, and the camera clicked off eighty
feet of a disconsolate little girl, ignored by everyone,
walking along the beach.

Street crowds are notoriously difficult to handle.
They will never do what you want ; and even when you
are sneaking them, there is always some smart Aleck in
the foreground who insists upon looking into the camera
and cracking his foolish face.

On one occasion Donlon wished to get a close-up of a
crowd looking skyward ; it was to be used as a cut-in for
an aeroplane story. To hire a lot of extras might have
cost a couple of thousand dollars ; so he took a chance of

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"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 193

getting what he wanted without paying for it. Know-
ing the psychology of crowds, Donlon took three cameras
downtown. He set one on the sidewalk, for the purpose
of taking a close-up profile of the crowd he was to
assemble; one was placed in a second-story window,
shooting straight into the people's faces; and one stood
on top of the building, also shooting down.

"When all was ready Donlon stood in the middle of the
street, with a megaphone, and began to call directions to
one "Ben," who stood on top of the building. The
crowd assembled immediately, and seeing the cameras,
began, as usual, to rubber right into them. Then Donlon
called out :

' ' Is Ben ready to jump ? ' '

And Ben called back: "Just a minute, Ed. I 'm a
bit nervous. Wait till that yellow car gets by. I think
I '11 try for the top of that big Pasadena ear ; it 's wider. ' '

Back and forth they called excited warnings and direc-
tions, and the crowd was right on tiptoes. They did n't
know what was going to happen, but it promised excite-
ment. All this time the camera men clicked that fool
crowd into celluloid immortality.

Just at the moment when Ben was going to jump, and
the crowd's eyes were riveted on the sky-line of the
building, a motor sneaked up quietly behind Mr. Ed
Donlon and his camera man and they were in and off
before the poor sillies could gather their wits together
and express their chagrin. Ben and the other camera
men made their get-away through the back of the build-
ing.

Another responsibility of the director is the safety of
the actors; for in dangerous situations he assumes su-

194 FILM FOLK

preme command, quite like the captain of a ship. A
studio at Long Beach was at work a while ago making
some scenes on a point of rocks well out in the ocean and
entirely masked from the mainland by a large cliff,
though easy of access at low tide.

The picture people had been out there for four hours
and had just completed their work when, upon returning
round the cliff, they saw that the tide had come in and
they were isolated. A wind was coming up and the sea
was beginning to run very high. The director knew the
rocks would be entirely swept by the waves in another
hour ; so he ordered the men to take one woman at a time
and start for shore. There were forty-two of the latter
and only sixteen men ; so each man had to make several
trips.

Everybody was finally landed safely ; but some of the
men were all in, the pulmotor being requisitioned for two
of them. The director, the last to leave, was so bat-
tered on the rocks that he went to the hospital for two
weeks.

THE KALEIDOSCOPE OF FASHION

On other occasions elaborate precautions are taken,
and then, curiously enough, no danger threatens. This
same studio wanted to make a picture of two girls being
pursued by a mad bull. After arranging for every pos-
sible contingency, even to the shooting of the bull, the
girls were turned into the field. The bull paid no atten-
tion to them. They were then furnished with red para-
sols; but the bull ate on. Now they were directed to
run toward the deadly brute; but the dear old fellow
looked up in the friendliest manner and permitted the

"KEADY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 195

girls to scratch him between the horns. Finally he ran
away where he could be free from annoying humans, and
the picture was not secured.

These are a few of the small and immediate problems
that fill the life of the director; but we have other and
larger questions that constantly keep us bucked up. One
is the everchanging taste of the public. A type of pic-
ture that is fashionable this season will not be patronized
next. So ephemeral is this curious public preference
that often it will make most abrupt changes. A few
years ago the play most in vogue was that of the dear
young girl with the curls, who jumped up and down and
clapped her hands in sweetest innocence — soft, sugary
little plays, in which virtue was stressed with almost
gooey intensity. The women, especially, flocked to these
films, and sent notes, flowers, and lavender books to the
girl who played lead, and finally voted her the greatest
favorite of the films.

Then, out of a clear sky, came the vampire to spread
vice and ruin in her dreadful wake. From the sweet
incense of the outdoors, we suddenly landed in the
heavy, sensuous atmosphere of the vampire trap. These
wreckers of homes and miners of perfectly good hus-
bands appeared in droves. They were tiger-women,
wolf -women, tarantulas, and other dangerous carnivora.
For a year or more these Miss Glums debauched the
poor he-men of our fair land with their perfumed
intrigues and domestic seditions. But thank heaven!
this miasmic gloom is on the wane; the vamp made
thistles while the sun shone, but her day was short.

We have about decided that it is the women who mold
public taste, for they love the unregretted vamps the

196 FILM FOLK

most. But perhaps the excessive female patronage was
due to the fact that men didn't like to go to pictures in
which their sex always got the hot end of the poker.

It is not only in female roles that tastes change. A
few years back the Western chap in hair-pants was the
real thing. I directed no end of those Arizona devils
who lassooed express-trains to save engineers' daughters.
As these fellows did not seem to be rough enough, we
framed up the lads from Alaska — great cave men who
grew their own fur — and they went strong for a few
years.

These northern, beautiful brutes always had romantic
blots on their escutcheons, usually in the form of some
squaw-lady whom they had sworn to cherish and obey,
but whom they left on the slightest provocation. The
provocation's slightness added immensely to the effec-
tiveness of the final dissolve, which showed the two in
a snuggly clinch silhouetted against the setting sun on
top of the Great Divide.

Just when we were at our wit's end as to how to ring
in new changes on the age-old motif of Beauty and the
Beast, the public taste changed again. And now it
wants the Donald Fairfaxes, who can ride polo-ponies,
shoot big game, and disport themselves like real gentle-
men in swell clubs and limousines; from the saloon to
the salon, all at a day's notice. And we are supposed to
keep even with the kaleidoscopic changes of our patrons.

One of the great discoveries of the twentieth century is
the recognition of the personality of the child. Tomes
have been written about it, the work of mothers and
teachers, and other knowing Olympians who thought they

"EEADY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 197

knew ; but if Madame Montessori wants to be authorita-
tive, she will have to direct a child in a moving-picture,
for only in that way will she ever learn the real truth.

A mere man — one Harry Kay — has had this curious
responsibility thrust upon his big, broad back for more
than a year now ; and what he does n't know about a child
could be printed in bold-faced type on a cigarette paper.
Baby Bernice is one of the youngest — just past five — and
most accomplished juveniles on the screen to-day, and
the villagers who nightly applaud her amazing acting no
doubt thiuk she goes about it with the utmost ease and
unconcern; but they little know of the extraordinary
patience and care that the poor, harassed director went
through to get those scenes. True, the child loves to
act — what child doesn't? — but she cannot be left to her
own devices or we should have a very strange result.

Like all children on the threshold of life, she wants to
know. Every scene, no matter how carefully explained
in advance, is interrupted by a perfect bombardment of
questions. ' ' But, Mithter Kay, why do I have to frown
at her? What ith she going to do to me?" Then the
whole action must be stopped for ten minutes, while the
poor soul explains all over again the reason for the
frown.

TACT IN HANDLING A TINT STAB

Like her older sisters. Miss Berenice at times grows
very temperamental; and right out of a clear sky she
will announce that she doesn't wish to play any more.
These are the times when the director must show his re-
sourcefulness, for her refusal may tie up the whole plant

198 FILM POLK

for hours at a time ; and, as the overhead charges against
a picture may often be as much as a hundred dollars an
hour, a delay of any length is a serious concern.

In order to meet these emergencies, Kay has resorted
to all the old subterfuges and a few new ones. One that
sometimes works is to pretend to totally ignore her ; and,
like some grown-up ladies — and men — she does not like
this treatment. Then, simulating great excitement, he
calls out: "Now all ready, folks; in your places!
Ready! Action! Camera! Go!" Like as not, Miss
Berenice is iu the foreground, doing her stunt.

If this trick fails, Kay pretends to feel all cut up;
and, as the child dearly loves him, she will go up and pat
him on the back, and tell him she was only fooling and
will make the picture after all.

There are times, though, when she goes right up in the
air; and then he has to resort to the meanest device in
the whole arsenal of male munitions :

"All right, Berenice; I 've been thinking that you are
not so well suited to the part as Minnie, and I 'm going
to send for her to take your place. ' '

In a flash Berenice is downstage, as big and indignant
as a grown-up leading lady. At that, many scenes have
to be made over and over again ; and often the story is
cut, amplified, and rearranged, to fit the whimsical ec-
centricities of this high-salaried young star.

One of the sweetest things this dear little tot does is
to cry in the scene where tears are necessary. One day
they refused to come ; so she went and sat in a comer for
fully five minutes.

"Mither Kay," she said wistfully, "I 'th been trying
to think of something thad; but I can't. If you would

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 199

thend for Mr. Jackson, and have him come and thpank
me, I think I could cry." So much for her sincerity.

In proof that the director is often more important than
the actor, I want to cite a specific case. A year ago I
was handed a very beautiful young thing who had landed
in our company through some hook or crook — I suspect it
was the latter — and it was up to me to put her over as a
lead. Her good looks carried her along pretty well in
the small stuff, but when it came to the big scene her
lack of training and her ingrowing brains made her hope-
lessly unequal to the part.

I struggled and labored a whole day and showed her
how to act it, down to the last gesture. She failed mis-
erably. Then I called in one of our character leads, a
woman of splendid ability, and she took her through the
scene time after time. We made twenty-two shots of
that one scene, and finally it went off splendidly. The
picture was a great success; and as some easy director
thought the young lady was a comer, he employed her at
a fine salary, and went to the bat to make his and her
fame and fortune. He made one picture and blew up.
The last I heard of the coming star, she was working as
an extra.

Our profession is full of so many things that I have
wandered along, hitting the high spots of interest; but
now I must get down to the ground and tell of the crisis,
the result of which will determine for many years the
place the photo-drama will occupy among the fine arts.
This crisis we are passing through has been brought
about by several factors: Overproduction — one studio
alone has more than four hundred thousand feet of film
on its shelves; excessive expenditures; the open market

200 FILM FOLK

at home ; and the closing of the European market, due to
the war.

A few years ago, when the stupendous profits in mo-
tion-pictures became known, the financial adventurers,
theatrical gamblers, and showmen began to jiunp in ; and
for the past two or three years the financial side of the
industry has occupied the minds of many of the bosses to
the exclusion of every other consideration. Companies
have been bought and sold like mining stock; mergers
and reorganizations have been effected; release com-
panies formed, reformed, and dissolved in such kaleido-
scopic succession that one scarcely knows from week to
week with which company he is working.

This last year the industry has been in such a state of
flux that everyone is frightened. Old companies have
become suddenly conservative; new companies have
splashed in one day and died the next; expenses are
being cut and the whole industry reorganized.

THE HATED EPFICIENCT MAN

A furious contest rages about the conflicting aims of
directors and owners. The latter are bent upon re-
trenchment, and the former feel that they must go on
and on, or die. It is the same old conflict between art
and business. In some places art is winning; in others,
business; in a few there is evolving a happy marriage.

When men of business began to crowd into the pic-
tures, they could not understand the apparent waste and
appalling expenditures. "Why should pictures that a few
years ago cost only ten thousand dollars now cost sixty
thousand dollars?

"Why," they said, "do you insist upon paying one

"EEADY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 201

thousand dollars a week to an actor who, on the stage,
never made more than three hundred dollars? Why
do you employ him for fifty-two weeks, and have him
work only ten or fifteen?"

So they have hired experts — efficiency men — ^to reor-
ganize the business. These men have now taken hold
and their results are interesting, for no doubt they have
found fearful waste and leakage ; but their remedies are
not always happy.

Hurried and harried on every side, the old-time plung-
ers are rebellious and indignant.

"Imagine," said one director to me a short time ago,
"trying to get into the spirit of a story with a clear head,
and every time you turn round having somebody ques-
tion your expense or hand you a note saying you are
half a day behind your schedule ! Or saying that you
must turn out so many feet a day! Or asking, 'Why
did you employ So-and-So for five dollars, when you
could have gotten So-and-So for three ? ' All our studio
wants is footage, cheap footage; it doesn't want good
stories. And as for art ; gad ! what 's art to them ? ' '

This is given only to show the unhappy spirit of a
director when he goes up against the new methods.

The truth is that only tentative estimates can be made
of any picture, if the director is not to be hamstrung.
Many uncertainties enter into the making of the sim-
plest story — ^the weather, accidents, an unsatisfactory
cast, mistakes in scenery, sickness of a lead, unforeseen
developments, and many other things beyond the power
or clairvoyant vision of any director.

One day, for instance, a director found a beautiful
brick wall covered with adobe and surmounted by red

202 FILM FOLK

tile. As it was romantically old and crumbling, he
wanted it for a location in a three-reel story he was di-
recting. After making seven of thirteen scenes he had
to return for a week to the studio, as his sets were ready
and the stage was needed as soon as he was through
shooting. Imagine his chagrin when, on the following
Monday, he went out to make the six other scenes at his
garden wall and found that the owner had torn it down !
After elaborate figuring, he decided it would be cheaper
to rebuild the wall than to retake the previous scenes at
another location.

Even after the most thoughtful preparation a scene
may have lost its "punch" — ^that ever necessary quality.
What to do then ? Let it go, or do it over and have Mr.
EfiSciency Man call you down ? Listen to my indignant
friend :

"Now I 'U grant that these efficiency fellows have
certain qualities; but imagination is not one of them,
else they would see that a moving-picture studio cannot
be run on the same plan as a canning factory, with so
much footage a day, like so much tuna. Unfortunately
you cannot can drama when the machinery breaks down,
or when one of the canners gets a pain in the lap;
and unfortunately actors and directors have silly stom-
achs, souls, and temperaments, quite unlike canning-
machines."

This, of course, is the extreme statement of one who is
trying to survive business efficiency.

There are other studios, however, with business men in
charge who recognize the limitations of efficiency and of
the human factor in making a picture. Fortunately, I

"READY! ACTION! CAMBEA! GO!" 203

happen to be in one of the latter ; and I am very strong
for the business policy it manifests, for the reason that
its efficiency is expressed in taking burdens — ^powers,
some of the old-time directors call them — from me, which
makes my work infinitely less irksome and much more
fluent.

In the old days it was my duty to write my own
scenario, employ my cast, edit the wardrobe, superintend
the building of sets, find my location, and, in fact, be
personally responsible for all the annoying details of a
picture, even before I began to direct it. Under the new
business management, all I do is to direct. In other
words, when I enter the studio I do so as an artist who
has had all his materials provided for him, his canvas
stretched, and his models properly costumed, so that he
may begin to paint immediately.

At some studios where the old order, or lack of it, still
prevails, they have sometimes taken from six to eight
months, and even a year, to build a great ten- or twelve-
reel feature picture. With the smooth working of our
wonderful business organization we are making them in
a half or a quarter of that time. Our results are quite as
impressive and our cost is amazingly less.

Let us watch Charles Mills for awhile and see how he
directed the historical drama that was assigned to him.

Unlike some directors. Mills does not consult his actors
in regard to the story. He calls them together and tells
them what he thinks of it and what he wants ! Turning
to a great star employed for this picture, he said :

"Now no doubt there are ten ways of making love, and
your way may be excellent; but as I have to carry the

204 FILM FOLK

psycliology of the entire story and the relation of one
character to another, and the relation of both to the
whole, I '11 have to insist that love be made the way I
want it. That is why I prefer that none of you shall
read the script; you might get ideas into your action
that I should have great difficulty in changing. This
picture has been given me to paint. I have the most
wonderful colors that an artist could crave; but you
must permit me to mix them as I see fit, for, after
all, a picture must of necessity be the work of one
man!"

Fortunately the stage stars had brains enough to see
the point of Mills* statement. Our stock actors knew all
this very well ; so they all worked in joyous harmony and,
in fact, soon recognized in him a great master.

"When the day arrived on which we were to begin the
picture, everything, down to the last detail, was in readi-
ness. Each department, jealous of its own efficiency,
had prepared for every contingency with astounding
foresight. We were to start on a series of small in-
teriors; and, lest there might be fog or cloudy weather,
the electricians had in reserve a huge battery of supple-
mentary lights.

Now on the screen in a ten-reel picture you may behold
the king in his antechamber perhaps twenty times
throughout the story ; but when we make the picture all
scenes in that location are made at once, so that the set
can be struck to make room for another. The scenes
made by day are developed at night, so that the assistant-
director and camera man may see the negative projected
in the morning; and, if necessary, a retake can be ac-
complished while the set still stands.

"READY! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 205

THE COUNCIL BEFORE THE BATTLE

We have many stages, and there are always half a
dozen sets standing and others in process of building.
To avoid any delay, the scene-men are supposed to keep
four days ahead of the schedule. If a large set is de-
layed, we utilize the time in making outside locations.

The small interiors, with only a few characters, are
much easier to make, and sometimes we do as many as
eight or ten in a day ; but when it comes to big scenes, the
director has to use all the brains at his command and the
different departments are put to the big test.

Take, for example, the great battle scene in the picture
Mills took. Every evening for a week he motored out
to the location, with his assistants and army men, and
went over the battlefield in minutest detail. A complete
topographical map was made; and finally, at a council
of war, just as they have in Europe, the movement of the
troops was arranged with absolute precision.

For several days before the battle the field was a scene
of utmost activity and apparent confusion. Tents were
pitched; the commissariat department set up its stoves
and tables; corrals for the horses and dressing rooms
for the actors were built; a hospital tent, with three
motor-ambulances, was installed; camera stands were
erected and masked ; and platforms were built so that the
knights, who wore armor weighing two hundred pounds
to the man, could mount their horses. In fact, every
need possible for the equipment and care of the two
thousand soldiers who were to take part in the great
battle was anticipated and provided for. The last thing
to be installed was a complete telephone system, running

206 FILM FOLK

all over the landscape, so that Mills could be in com-
munication with his assistants and camera men in every
remote part of the field.

Truck-gardeners going to market early one morning
last August were greeted with a strange sight. A great
army of French and English soldiers emerged into the
San Fernando Valley to do battle for their kings. They
were clad in everything, from gay-colored jerkins to
full armor, but were riding in automobiles of every de-
scription, from the humble flivver to the huge sight-
seeing busses and motor-trucks. "When, at eight o'clock,
they arrived at the scene of impending carnage they
found everything in readiness, from hot breakfast to
grease-paint ; and with Teutonic precision they got down
to the business of the day.

By half-past ten everything was in readiness for the
first rehearsal. It was decided that the first day should
be entirely occupied with this necessity, and the real
pictures would be taken on the morrow. Squads and
companies of knights and soldiers were here, there, and
everjrwhere, scattered over the scene as far as the eye
could reach, and aU in command of army men, used
to discipline and obedience. The order had gone out
that the least disobedience meant immediate dismissal.

At half-past ten Mills, on his observation platform,
with the telephone jigger fastened to his head, quietly
gave the order to begia. At once troops started to move
over that hill and around this; and so perfectly did
every unit do its allotted stunt that the director sud-
denly decided to make the picture at once, and ordered
the troops all back to their places and the camera men
to make ready.

"EBADT! ACTION! CAMERA! GO!" 207

When everybody was at his post, he called up all
stations and told them that the real battle would be
fought immediately. Before anybody could express as-
tonishment, he issued an order to station six to send
the men out; then in rapid succession he called one
station after another, directing the camera at number
eleven to begin shooting, or camera number six to cease
firing; and so on throughout the whole plan of action.

MASTEEY OF DETAIL

So completely had he mastered every detail that the
battle raged with utmost violence and in perfect accord
with the plans. The knights on horseback, having been
correctly timed, arrived in a cloud of dust exactly at
the moment they were due. And the men, realizing that
they were being actually filmed, with small chance of
a retake, plunged in with magnificent recklessness.

How any of them came out of that mess of plunging
horses, jabbing lances, and swirling broadswords with-
out injury is a marvel ! Needless to say, many of them
were hurt, some very badly, and the ambulances were
not installed in vain ; yet fortunately nobody was killed.

The greatest achievement was the splendid harmonious
working together of many departments, which made it
possible to take so great a scene without rehearsal.
The smoothness of the system was no less remarkable
than that of a great circus ; and theirs is a daily routine,
while this show lived but once.

After the big battle there were innumerable close-ups
and many small scenes, which kept us on the battlefield
for three days more ; but a few years ago we — and many
companies even to-day — would have required several

208 FILM FOLK

weeks to get the pictures taken during those four days.

But, with all our careful management, there is al-
ways the human factor looming up to edit our success.

Once, in one of the smaller battle scenes, Mills called
to station seven, where some soldiers were standing at
ease, and said:

"Present my compliments to the gentleman standing
by the tree, and tell him that knights of the Middle
Ages did not smoke."

I used to be pretty well discouraged when I was
making pictures whose sole bid for popularity was their
"punch," or the vulgar display of money in their mak-
ing; then I fell foul of the adventurous theatrical
gamblers, and what was left of my artistic soul was killed
and quite indecently buried. But, fortunately for me,
I had been a conscientious director, always struggling
toward the stars ; so I got to heaven.

And here I have been for a year, with all my dreams
come true. Men of brains are my associates; real
artists design the sets ; plenty of money is intelligently
expended ; and when we get good stories we make notable
productions — ^the joy of our lives!

SUPES AND SUPERMEN
(THE EXTRA MAN HAS OPINIONS)

EVEN for experienced travelers like Dune and me
the surroundin's at the studio were quite strange.
It seemed like there was a fete or a festival, or sunthin',
goin' on, such gayety and joshin' and cuttin' up as there
was. At other times I could n't think of en 'thin' except
a great big circus — ^what with so much canvas, sawdust
fillin' the mud-holes, folks in all sorts of bright-colored
costumes, and fellas sellin' hot dogs, ice-cream cones, and
things. It was a gay place, but confusin'. Everybody
seemed to be doin' sunthin', or goin' to do sunthin';
but nothin' ever happenin'. To further remind you of
the circus, every once in a while, when the wind was
right, you got that Bamum & Bailey bouquet from the
animal cages at the other end of the lot.

Dune and I were jest beginnin' to like the place when,
with about fifteen other fellas, we were ordered into
automobiles and set sail for Bear Valley 'way up in the
high mountain. Now when you learn that Bear Valley
is where they make all the snow pictures, you will un-
derstand how happy Dune was, who had come out to
California to be warm. Though always cold. Dune is

?09

210 FILM FOLK

a game boy; and when he discovered this horrible fact
he never batted an eye. This was pretty brave, for we
had been told that we were cast for a coupla fool in-
mates of a sanitarium where the patients had to amble
about in the snow, naked but for a towel.

TRICKS OF THE TRADE

The story was supposed to be a comedy ; but the f eUa
who wrote it must 'a' been a cold-blooded devil, for if
you 'd 'a' seen ten or twelve of us poor wops sittin'
round in steamer-chairs, in two foot of snow, with
nothin' on but bath towels, eatin' icicles and readin'
magazines, like we were at Palm Beach, you 'd 'a'
thought that the human race had gone nutty. But
that 's what we did ; and, furthermore, we pretended to
like it, for we were drawin' five a day, and we didn't
want the director to think we were short sports.

Now Dune has a pretty grim sense of humor himself,
and he pulled some good stuff, in one scene, usin' me as
the butt ; and the director liked it a whole lot. He told
me on the way back that we made a right good team,
and he guessed he could use us again in comedy.

It was rather rough for our first job, but the adven-
ture was worth while, and we learned a lot about our
new life. Also, we made friends with several of the other
fellas that were workin' extra, and they tipped us off
to no end of things that were valuable to know.

For instance, a few days later we were lucky enough
to be taken on for a great big dramatic story that would
be about four weeks makin'. In one of the interior sets
the director called out: "Half of you guys beat it, and
the rest stay on for a close-up." Old Man Purdy had

SUPBS AND SUPEKMEN 211

tipped us that if such a demand was made, to beat it;
and we did.

"Always make an exit," he had told us; "for if you
make an exit you '11 have to make an entrance, as
they '11 need you for other scenes. When people exit
from an interior set, the continuity demands a picture
showin' 'em comin' into the street. But when a scene
dissolves out, it is ended, and the services of those boobs
remainin' for the dissolve are likely to be ended with
it. You '11 notice that the new ones stick round, hopin'
to be in the picture as much as possible; but the old-
timers duck. And, above all, side step the close-ups,
for a close-up registers your face; and if it is once
registered, you are liable to be canned for all subse-
quent scenes. Suppose, for instance, that you had ap-
peared in a street scene in France, as a peasant; it
wouldn't do to see the same face, a few minutes later,
peerin' out of the Tower of London. No my lad; it
would be a bum director that would have a French
peasant sing 'The Marseillaise,' and then register the
same mug singin' 'God Save the King!' If an extra is
real keen, he can often work in every scene of a five-
reel er. So we old wheel-horses shy the close-ups."

We soon learned that the extras had an elaborate
code and technic of their own. Furthermore, they study
their directors in a way that 's amazin'! They get to
know all their whims, dispositions, fancies, and weak-
nesses ; also, where they are strong.

"You can't pull en 'thin' on Mills," a character-man
said to me one day. "That son-of-a-gun can pick a
sleeper out of a crowd of two thousand!" I learned
the truth of this later, when, at last, I got on regular

212 FILM FOLK

at his studio. One day a fella came up and asked him
for work in a picture that was startin' the foUowin'
Monday.

ME. MILLS AND THE CUT-XJP

"Not for one foot of film," replied Mr. Mills. "I
used you in that battle scene out in Griffith Park last
August, and you laughed when they knocked your king
off his horse. You thought, because you were one of
five hundred, that I didn't see you. No; you won't
do, young man ; my work is too hard and serious to fool
with any cut-ups like you."

It 's men like Mr. Mills, though, that make actors outa
extra men; and if a fella has any ambitions higher 'n
jest check-grabbin', he 's lucky to hook up with directors
like him.

In a big scene last summer Mr. Mills wanted to show
a crowd watchin' a woman bumin' at the stake. Some
directors would 'a' let us rave and tear and sprain our
faces tryin' to record horror. Not so with this direc-
tor. He first addressed the crowd, and told us what
was to happen, and what he expected.

"The fact is," said he, "that all those attendin' a
burnin' would not show horror. Some would be fas-
cinated, some pale and starin', a few would be made ill;
and always at such times there would be several women
faintin'. Now I put it up to each of you, individually,
to show how you would behave in the face of such a
gruesome tragedy."

That, of course, put us on our mettle and gave us
sunthin' to think about. When he called for a rehearsal

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 213

I give you my word that, as he stood up on the plat-
form beside the camera, shoutin' directions, he did not
miss the expression on one face in all the two hun-
dred before him.

' ' That 's fine, madam ; turn your head. It 's hor-
rible! Good, man; jest stare and bite your nails.
Here, you in the yella jerkin, cut out muggin'! Mr.
Ford, take out that man in the blue cape. Fine, men;
fine! "Willie, step out of the picture; you don't seem
to understand. Splendid, Harris ! Hey, you ! You in
the red cloak: Do you think they are roastin' peanuts?
Mr. Davis, tell those men in the doorway that it is
their pay checks that are burnin', and perhaps they
will show some interest. Great, Miss Harvey! Give
her a hand there, boys. Can't you see that she 's all
in?" And so on.

There 's one thing about workin' for Mr. Mills: you
feel that you are learnin' sunthin'; and if you do good
work, it will be noticed. But there are some directors
that extra men don't respect, or jest naturally hate;
and they look for any chance to make monkeys of 'em.
These are the loud-mouthed, profane, or beUyaehin' kind,
that keep bawlin' out the cast, or makin' them so
nervous that they can't work. I 've seen girls cry them-
selves into hysterics when one of these mutts got temper '-
mental. You can't go bawlin' out a lotta fellas that
are perfectly willin' to do the right thing, if they
know what it is, without gettin' a lotta goats. Many
a scene has been crabbed because the extra men
were gettin' even with a director that had been abusin'
'em.

214 FILM FOLK

UP AND DOWN THE SOCIAL SCALE

Some fellas jest naturally go to pieces when they get
roasted in front of the bunch. I 've stood beside men
who were shakin' all over, they were that nervous.
There are certain directors who realize that actors can't
do well when they 're all worked up and excited, or
mad; so they make it a point never to tip off their
own nervousness or bad temper. The camera man is the
guy that gets it then. I know one director who is ap-
parently the most genial fella in the world, but, all the
time he is smilin', under his breath he is growlin' and
dam 'in' us up hill and down to the camera man.

If directors were interested enough to know what the
extras thought of them, they 'd learn a lot of things;
but there are only a few big enough to ever ask us our
opinion of a bit of action, or en 'thin' else. In some
Civil "War battle stuff a while back, the director had a
young army capt'n assistin' him, so's to have the technic
correct; and, because the capt'n acted in a know-it-aU
way, he thought he was wise to the etiquette of soldiers
at all periods. Now in the scene there were some old
codgers from the Soldiers' Home, at Sawtelle, and they
saw that the action was wrong in many ways; so one
of them timidly went up and told the director that he 'd
like to make a suggestion. He was dismissed very curtly,
without a chance to say a word. If that fool director
had listened, he would 'a' learned — in time to save a
fifteen-hundred-dollar retake — that privates in Civil
War times did not salute their officers at all as they do
now; that and a lotta other things which his capt'n
was too young to know.

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 215

The thing that surprised me when I broke into the
pictures was that extras had a social caste quite as well
defined as the stock actors and the leads. The fella
who digs ditches or peddles fish, and occasionally kicks
into the pictures in the mob stuff, is not considered an
extra man; this is a profession in itself. Extra men
carry their little kits, jest like piano-tuners and doctors
— grease-paint, wigs, toilet articles, and what not. They
go from studio to studio as the shiftin' needs require
'em; and, as they are known everywhere, they always
get first call over the floaters that "want in" because
they are in need of a few dollars.

Many extra men specialize on certain stunts, or in
characters that they are specially fitted for. A fella like
"Dress-suit Charlie," for instance, has almost a clair-
voyant hunch where they are goin' to do ball-room stuff;
and, as he is a doll-baby and a good dancer, he 's prob-
ably atmosphered in more society pictures than any
fella in the country. The "soup and fish," as we caU
the society stuff, pays five dollars a day. Then, a fella
like Old Pop Purdy is in almost perpetual demand for
judges and old-man parts. He 's specially good in the
Si Perkins stuff, because he can take out his teeth.

This reminds me that there is a regular scale in this
business.

The cheapest work is mob stuff. Crowds are usually
furnished by the employment agencies; and, as no cos-
tumes are necessary, they go on jest as they come.
The pay is a great, big, round, iron dollar a day, with
sometimes carfare; and usually it includes lunch, which
consists of a sandwich, pickle, wedge o' pie, and a cupa
coffee. As I said before, these mob folks are not extra

216 FILM FOLK

people in our definition. The leads and stock don't
think much of us socially; but, like the office-boy who
had the cat to kick, we 've got one group lower 'n us.

Before the war the cheapest regular extra work was
the soldier stuff, payin' two dollars a day. These men
were mostly recruited from the fellas that had served
their enlistment in the army, or deserted it. In the big
battle stuff, where they had to hire thousands, the regu-
lar soldier extra men were put in charge of squads to
drill and handle ; and for this work they got five dollars.

"Atmosphere" is the official name of the next group.
These are the ones who work in costumes furnished by
the studio; and the pay is three a day. Where a fella
furnishes his own spangles, he hits the pay-check for
five. Here 's where the boy with the dress-suit and the
girl with the ball-gown cut in.

VABIOUS PARTS, VARIOUS PRICES

A small "bit" also gets five a day; but a good bit,
such as a butler, draws seven and a half. There are
some fellas so suited and intended for certain characters
that they are always in demand for those parts, and
nothin' else. I know one chap who does nothin' but
buttle in the homes of the rich, and he 's always wantin'
to be cast for adventurous parts.

It must be that when God makes a man, he some-
times says to himself, "Now this fella will be an um-
breUa-mender, and this fella I 11 make into a butler,"
and so on; for there are some in this business who
couldn't change from what God made 'em up for,
with all the clothes and grease-paint in the prop. room.

There is an old colored fella, ownin' a bunch o' liver-

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 217

ies, who has acted as coachman, footman, and man-
servant in half the pictures in the country. Old Pop
Purdy is rarely outa work, though his dream is of the
day when he will be taken in stock. The enthusiasm
he has for his parts, no matter how small, is almost
pathetic. Even when he 's jest doin' atmosphere, he 's
in character — if he has to invent the part.

So well understood are the scales for the different
kinds of work that extra people never talk of the char-
acters they 're portrayin'. You hear one fella call to
another: "What yeh made up for, Bill?" "Three
dollars," he replies; "but to-morra I 'm workin' in
five-dollar stuff, and next week I 've got two days at
the Eureka doin' seven-fifty."

The highest-priced extras are the rare types and the
dare-devils. These latter are the ones who will make
bad falls and take hard beatin's, and do about en 'thin'
they are told to. The Climax has a fella who 's a dare-
devil and a half; for he told me himself that he was
half Indian, half Mex., and half Chink. He 's not
what you 'd call prepossessin' in appearance, but he 'd
take a high dive into hell for a ten-doUar bill. He 's
got long, black hair; so he often doubles for women
who have to be handled rough.

A funny one happened last spring. Hawkeye was
doublin' for a dear little baby-doll who had to be thrown
out of a window by the villain ; and it was necessary that
he have his back to the camera during the whole action,
for it was all downstage stuff. He did a back fall that
was a perfect wonder, landin' flat up in a bed of flowers,
right in front of the camera; but his attitude was such
that — How will I say it? Well, anyway, ladies are

218 FILM FOLK

not supposed to wear half -hose garters ; and the picture
was spoiled, the worst part bein' that a retake was im-
possible because Hawkeye had to go to the hospital with
a sprained back. That poor devil spends about half his
time in splints.

A SHORT ENGAGEMENT AS UNCLE JOE

The other high-priced extras that I spoke of — the rare
types — also draw down ten a day; but they are used
only on unusual occasions. Once, when we were makin'
a congressional picture, the director wanted a type that
looked like Joe Cannon. After scourin' the whole town
over for a week or more, one of the assistants dug up
an old codger on the West Side who was a dead ringer
for your Uncle Joe. He had spent his lifetime as a min-
ister in the service of the Lord, but when he was asked
to play the part of Joe Cannon, he got all swelled up
on himself. Perhaps he was flattered to look like any-
one so prominent, but most likely he was sufEerin' from
the same itch that everyone has to act in the movies.
If some one tells you that he once knew a fella who was
so modest that he didn't want to see himself in the
pictures, and if you 've got the patience to run down
the rumor, you '11 find there is no truth in it; for —
take it from one who knows — "there ain't no sich ani-
mal."

The fall of this dear old fella was complete. He got
work for only two days, but those two days were enough
to ruin him for life. After his hour of dramatic in-
toxication he simply couldn't go back to the prosaic
job of herdin' human sheep in the straight and narrow
path, specially as some of 'em had got lost in the mtovies.

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 219

No ; a new wine had got into his veins, and it was good-
night flock and everythin'. He was a movie-actor now,
by heck! And, s'help me, he 's been warmin' a bench
at the studio ever since. I suppose he 's hopin' some day
he '11 be reelected to the House.

Anyway, there he sits, day after day, without a chance
in the world, while a lot of nice white sheep are gettin'
all soiled up, jest because their shepherd has deserted
'em.

When this movie bug once gets into the system, it 's
sunthin' awful! There are a lotta corkin' big brawny
brutes who 've lost their usefulness as gas-fitters be-
cause they got on once in a mob scene, and are convinced
that Hobart Bosworth is holdin' 'em out of a job be-
cause of his jealousy and his pull with the manage-
ment.

"Dan," said Dune, one night when we were playin'
cribbage in that dump we first lived in down on Temple
Street, "let 's kick into this game seriously and see if we
can't land somewhere. A lotta people think that the
actin' job is a joke, but I 've come to the conclusion that
anyone who can add any pleasure and joy to this miser-
able old world is a high priest. And when you see the
number of ex-prize fighters that have deserted real
drama and have made good in comedy, it would seem
that we ought to do as well as a lotta infightin' welter-
weights."

So we determined to learn all we could, work like pups,
save our money, and see if we couldn't attract some
favorable notice First, we got us complete grease-paint
outfits and began to study make-up. Dune developed
some amazin' results. He is no Mary Pickford as to

220 FILM FOLK

looks, nor am I built like Annette Kellermann; but we
got so 's we could give some of the professional beauts a
battle. At first, my face had about as much mobility
as an iron dog; but Dune would rehearse me by the
hour in different expressions, until I got so 's I could
register about every emotion a f eUa 's likely to have, and
a few unlikely ones, such as bein' asked to play the
lead in a five-reel feature. Gradually we began to
gather a wardrobe — dress-suits, Western stuff, and
such, hopin' some day to be equipped as well as the
best of 'em. During the two years of our accumu-
lations we had a good many ups and downs; but
from the first, one or the other of us had sunthin' to
do.

The greatest trouble in this game is holdin' up a
decent wage scale. There have been all sorts of organ-
izations and unions, but they usually end up at an
employment agency, and then peter out. The low scale
is due to the number of idle people who will work for
almost nothin', jest to be occupied. Los Angeles is full
of folks who have come out here for their health, or to
sit in the garden and get warm. Many of them have
small incomes, and don 't actually have to work ; but they
want to be occupied, and what could be more fun than
to act in the movies ! Even rich society people crab our
game by offering to work for nothin'; they consider it
quite a lark. If a studio wants a buncha well-dressed
atmosphere, like as not the assistant director wiU call
up the social secretaries of some of the hotels and tell
them to send over a eoupla loads of goldfish. The
social secretaries will suggest the scheme to a well-
dressed bunch of rich ones from the East.

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 221

AN EXPENSIVE SET THEEATENED

Will they go? Lord, you couldn't keep 'em out with
fly-screens ! If they knew that perhaps they were holdin '
out of a job some poor girl that had gone broke buyin'
a wardrobe for jest such chances, maybe they wouldn't
go takin' her job away from her.

Some of the cheap studios, knowin' that we can't
organize, take advantage of that fact and make us
stand even their own losses. "When we were new and
ignorant at this business we got work jn a big picture
that was usin' a whole lot of extras. One day we were
all dressed for our parts, but the light was bad ; and the
director, after keepin' us standin' round until three
o'clock, came out and said we were dismissed, and to
report the next day. Right then there was trouble. A
few belligerent lads, led by Dune, went up to the ofSee
and told 'em if we did n't get our pay we would wreck
the set — and we meant it.

Furthermore, we gave 'em ten minutes to do it, for
we did n't want to get in a jam' with the police, and we
knew that they could n't get out to the studio from town
in less 'n half an hour. That set cost upward of thirty
thousand dollars; so they thought it cheaper to pay us
than to take any chances.

We were waitin' one day in the yard of a new
studio, with about thirty other fellas, when a chap
named Bernstein began tellin ' us what dubs we were not
to organize; and he got into quite an argument with a
great big lobster called Squinty. While they were hot
at it, the employment director came out and said he
wanted twelve men; but all he could pay was a dollar.

222 FILM FOLK

Nobody made the slightest move for a long time; then
Squinty stood up and, lookin' straight at Bernstein,
said:

"I'll work for a dollar."

Well, it 's jest as well that he did his lookin' then,
for two seconds later his lamps were trimmed and
his face was otherwise all mussed up. When Squinty
could finally distinguish between light and darkness, he
made a very ashamed exit. The director stood there
grinnin' while this was goin' on; and when calm re-
turned, he said:

"I don't blame you fellas for that. I would n't work
for a dollar, either. I was sent out to hire you guys for
a dollar, if I could get you; but, seein' I can't, I '11
have to give you two. ' '

The picture we were drawn for was a modem, small-
town, street scene, and there was to be some sort of a
row on the hotel balcony. Six were told off to go up
and start roughin' it up, Bernstein bein' one of 'em.
Now I 've done a bit o' travelin' and have seen some
pretty rotten things pulled, but this here balcony stunt
was the rawest ever. Imagine hirin' a painter to paint
your house, and then you goin' out and puUin' the
ladder from under him, and thinkin' it was a joke!
Well, that 's about what they did in this scene. The
balcony was fixed with a breakaway, and when the boys
were warmed up to the struggle, some one pulled the
support out and down come the whole works. It made
a corkin' picture, no doubt; but some of the fellas were
badly hurt, one of 'em quite seriously. For the fall
stuff the studios usually employ daredevils at ten dollars
a day, who know how to fall from en 'thin'. These guys

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 223

were jest cheap; and to save those few dollars they
pulled that miserable trick.

If you remember, this was the bunch that refused
to work for one dollar, stiU feelin' very 1776 after
beatin' up Squinty. Bernstein started the survival of
the fittest by lightin' into the director; and, as he seemed
to be the guilty one, the rest of us jest stood round
to see that he got a fair wallop at the bird. In a minute
the whole place was in an uproar, and Bernstein made
his get-away in the confusion.

Every now and then I read in the papers that Ameri-
cans are softies and have lost their "militant spirit";
but there seems to be lots of punch in certain fellas out
in this part of the world. Anyway, you couldn't con-
vince the big directors that we can't raise the grandest
army of roughbucks in the world.

MR. MEADE HITS THE PAVEMENT

Another time, in a Mexican story, a bunch of us
were sittin' round waitin' to go on, when a camera kid
I knew came up to me and said :

"Dan, I jest heard the lead talkin' to the director,
and they are framin' one I thiok you ought to know
about. The scheme is to have you all sittin' round the
entrance of the adobe house, and Meade will roll off the
roof right into the middle of the bunch, usin' you for
cushions to break his fall. The director suggested that
he might incidentally break your necks ; but Meade said
he 'd fix it to have nothin' but Mexicans.

When I heard this, I went and dug up the patron
who bosses the Mexicans and tipped him off that this
curly-haired brute was goin' to use his countrymen

224 FILM FOLK

as shockabsorbers for a pretty fall. I couldn't under-
stand what he called out ; but jest as Meade got to roUin'
nicely, those boys opened up the prettiest hole you ever
saw, and Mr. Gansevoort Meade hit the adobe pavement
with such realism, that it loosened up about a thousand
dollars' worth of bridgework. And the joke of it was
he couldn't say en 'thin' about it — if he'd had the
breath, which he hadn't — without tippin' his hand.
Anyway, he had that bump comin'.

The Mexicans are the queerest bunch that work extra.
They are employed by a patron, and consequently take
orders from him only. A director can shout his fool
head off, even in bad and violent Spanish, but they won't
do a thing until their pairon tells 'em to. They work
best in the battle stuff, for they are naturally better
actors and more dramatic than Americans. The lowest-
browed dub in the bunch has some artistic sense and will
take a fearful drubbing for art's sake.

Strangely enough, they fight with much more en-
thusiasm just before lunch. The studio lunches are
banquets to fellas who 've grown up strong on chili
beans. I once heard a director tell a patron to tell his
men that he was goin' to pay 'em five dollars for their
day's work; but he expected 'em to earn it. Say, you
ought to 've seen those black devils fight ! They 'd liked
to have killed one another.

So long as I have told you those rummy anecdotes,
I 'm goin' to get another off my chest and then turn to
pleasanter subjects.

"We were workin' in a picture one day at the beach,
where the hero had to climb up a cliff by a rope, with
four or five of us folio win' him up. When Edgar was

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 225

near the top, and the rest of us were danglin' below
him like a rope of pearls, we heard some one up above
call out to cut the rope. This cheerful direction was
given without any warning, for naturally none of us
would 'a' gone aloft if we had known that the rope was
to be cut. You can imagine what a splash we made as
we all pitched down, one on topa the other. They no
doubt got some "swell film"; but a pinhead director
could get a "swell murder" if he actually had a fella
kill his mother in front of the camera. This was the
first time that I 'd been caught in any of these cheap
stunts, and my spirit was sorer than my old bruised
hulk.

The first thing that occurred to me when I untangled
myself from that squirmin' mess of men was to get my
hands on the gent who said to cut the rope. I looked
up to the top of the cliff, where the other camera was
located, and, seein' the director peekin' over, I started
up after him. It 's jest as well he beat it when he saw
me comin', for I was not very amiable at that moment,
and there 's no tellin' what a fella 's likely to do when
he 's het up.

There 're at least two, and sometimes as many as four,
sides to every question; and I don't want you to think
that all directors treat their extras like these few I 've
mentioned. Then, too, there are no end of extra people
who are entitled to little consideration. Check-grabbers,
who stall every minute they can, are a fearful expense
and a darn nuisance. At some studios it got so that a
fella would go to the ofSce and get his ticket ; then, at the
first opportunity, beat it off the lot, but turn up in the
evenin ' to get his ticket cashed. Nowadays you get your

226 FILM FOLK

card, go to the costume department and get it pimched
for the spangles and props; then, when you return the
stuff, get it punched again; and then, finally, you must
get it signed by the assistant director — ^who knows
whether you 've been workin' or not — ^before you can get
it cashed at the office. Even with such precautions,
many of these dubs find ways of beating the companies.

This trick is easiest to pull where there are many
people engaged, and the scene is spread over a lotta
country. In a big Babylonian ten-reeler we were makin'
last spring, there were so many people in the picture
that they stalled by hundreds. In one very excitin'
night-scene, where everybody was supposed to be in the
picture, I saw at least forty Babylonian warriors playin'
cards and smokin' cigarettes on the walls of Babylon,
while the Persians were thunderin' at the gates. No
wonder they got in. A bunch of these fellas were
caught and had to give up their tickets; but, at that,
there was a pile o ' money lost.

Check-grabbers who sneak off into the brush to smoke
or sleep durin' the big outdoor scenes are called squirrels.
Most companies have horsemen for no other purpose than
to jest ride round and stir them out. In a Civil War
picture last month some powder-monkeys went out to
plant dynamite under an army wagon, and, for some
reason, they decided to overturn it first. When they did
so, out rolled five squirrels !

The rottenest thing about the check-grabbers is that
they crab the game for all of us. No matter how honest
and ambitious a fella is, he is open to the same suspicion
as these guys.

The greatest pests in the game are the cheap skates

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 227

who try to "make paper" with the directors by flatterin'
'em. They stand round within hearin' distance of the
director and tell everybody what a wonderful fella
Mister So-and-So is. Then they are always buttin'
round askin' the boss whether their make-up is satisfac-
tory.

Some directors love this kind of cheap flattery and
are always trailia' a bunch of worshipin' favorites round
with 'em. There are others who are bored to death
with these sticky slobs and think up all sorts of pic-
turesque ways to hand it to 'em. A favorite one with
Goodhue was to start a fella runnin' out of the picture
and forget to tell him to stop.

One day a man named Haney got Goodhue's goat so
hard that he grew pretty peevish ; and I figured that he
was framin' sunthin' excitin' for Mr. Haney. Sure
enough, when we were about through Goodhue calls
him over and says:

"Haney, I want you to load on your minin' kit; and,
startin' by this tree, I want you to walk straight out of
the picture. And don't turn round for en 'thin', be-
cause I 'm goin' to try a long-distance slow dissolve.
I want to get one of those lonesome effects of a chap
headed for the settin' sun."

In less than a minute Haney had grown six inches
and a -half round the chest. To be picked for the final
dissolve ! This was fame that came to but few.

"We aU stood round, watchin' to see how the camera
man would work his shutter ; but when Haney had gone
beyond hearin' distance, Goodhue, with his fingers to
his lips, ordered the cameras struck, and motioned us all
to our machines. By this time Haney had gone about

228 FILM FOLK

a mile, and he never so much as turned his head. Take
a chance of spoilin' such a picture? Never!

This comedy was enacted up in the San Fernando
Valley, where the distances are perfectly magnificent.
To'rd the west, as far as the eye could see, stretched
a limitless waste. After we had been ridin' for about
ten minutes, Goodhue ordered the machines to stop.

"Boys," said he, "I never saw such a sunset; let 's
wait for a minute and drink it in."

It certainly was grand ! And 'way, 'way off yonder
we could jest barely see a little black spot on the horizon,
which grew less and less, and finally disappeared. It
was Haney dissolvin' into the settin' sun.

HOW TO BREAK IN

If you read the movie magazines, you 've discovered
by this time how all the leads broke into the pictures.
They love to tell of the way they struggled against fear-
ful odds and then arrived by their own superb powers ;
or else how the director went over backward the first
time he saw 'em, and, as soon as he recovered, got 'em
to sign a contract for a measly three hundred dollars a
week that they had a fierce time breakin'. They also
assure you that, if you are as handsome, intelligent, and
persistent as they are, you can also make the grade to
film fame. As competition with their physical splendors
and splendid brains is too hopelessly discouragin', about
all that 's left for most of us is persistence.

As very few of the supermen arrive via the extra
job, their stories are more interestin' than helpful.
So I 'm goin' to tell you how the ninety-and-nine break
in.

SUPBS AND SUPERMEN 229

First of all, it is absolutely necessary to appear in
person. You '11 never get a job by writin' for it, or
thinkin', because you 've mailed your certificate from
the Correspondence School of Expression, that they '11
send for you. If you 've had any experience, state it,
and make your statement strong ; leave a photo of your
fair young face ; and then be sure to live on a telephone.
Now if you have a good, strong wife who 's willin' to
work, perhaps you can stick round for eight or ten
years waitin' for the director to send for you, as he
said he would ; but if you want to get action before you
are good for only old-man parts, you 'd better keep
makin' the grand tour of the studios.

It 's a pretty tiresome job, for they are far apart;
but after awhile you '11 begin to get tips where work is
likely to be had. If you hang to it long enough — and
this will depend upon your wife's ability to keep you
in that station of life which will assure a good front
and enough fuel so 's you can make the rounds — per-
haps some purple day you will be called.

If you once start out after this movie job, you can't
work elsewhere ; for the very day you 're off the job is
the day they want you. That 's where a good, strong
wife can tide a fella over. I knew one chap who waited
at a certain studio continuously for six weeks; then
one day he tried his luck at another, and while he was
gone the director came out and asked for him. One
of his friends called the lad up that night and told him
about it, so he hot-footed right over the next mornin';
but the director gave him a bawlin' out for not bein'
round when he was wanted.

A pull works in this business the same as in any other.

230 FILM FOLK

Great men often have lowly acquaintances; and a bell-
hop who gets very friendly with the director who lives
in his hotel will stand a lot better chance of landin' a
job than a fella without any friends on the inside.

Extras are hired by the assistant-directors ; or, as some
studios make a separate job of this, by the "talent
man" or "employrn' director." In order to hold their
jobs these feUas have to show good judgment in their
choices; but, after all, they are jest as human as the
rest of us, and often will fix it so 's some fella they like
can make a few dollars.

The extras that come from the stage seem to make the
grade easier than the others, not because they have more
talent, but because they have more crust. They think
a lot better of themselves than ordinary folks, and have
a way of stickin' round until they impress the talent
man that they are the goods. There isn't a doubt that
there is a lot of fine, smolderin' talent lyin' round on the
benches outside the office, but the owners haven't got
the front to go with it; and, b'lieve me, this is no game
for modest violets.

FAILUKES WHO HATE SUCCESSES

As Los Angeles is the terminus — that 's a softer word
than finish — of many a road company, the town is full
to overflowin' of "artists" who are "restin'." But no
real artist wants to "rest"; so he offers his services
to the studios, and if there is a ghost of a show, he
wiU get it, while the ordinary humans are readia'
special articles on How to Break In.

Dune and I landed because of astrology, or omens,
or sunthin'. We fortunately began in comedy; and

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 231

Dune, bein' a real eomedian, pulled some bully gags
that cinched our jobs for a while, at least. He worked
them all with me, our physical contrasts bein' funny to
start with.

I don't much blame the police for forbiddin' our
pictures where they have the power of censorship, for
our portrayal of these dignified guardians of the law
was not such as to command the respect that they think
is their due. I 've found that there are three classes
of people who can't take a joke: school-teachers, min-
isters, and the police. These professions seem to put a
crimp in a fella's sense of humor.

I was remarkin' this to Dune the other night, and
he agreed ; but he said I ought to include extra men.

"It 's my observation, Dan," said he, "that the bum
actor is the most serious and egotistical ass in our social
cosmos. Nine tenths of the dubs we work with think
they are really good, and that the fellas at the top are
a bunch of prunes who have landed in the headlines
because of some drag. Jest go down to the Kampau
Bar some night and hear 'em rave.

" 'Griffith?' says one. 'Why, I knew Griff when he
didn't have a bean to his name! Met him down in
Menfis one time, tryin' to beat a hand-out ; and I slipped
him a dollar. Now he does n't even know me !'

" 'Walthall an actor?' pipes up another. 'Ah, ya
make me sick! He was nothin' but a punk super when
I was playin' opposite Edna May!'

" 'Arbuckle funny?' comes from 'way down the bar.
'He 's jest as funny as an ulcerated tooth! You know
why he holds his job, don't you? Well, the big boss
don't dare to fire 'im. Why? Well, this is jest

232 FILM FOLK

between us; but they say that Arbuckle knows where
the girl is buried.' And so on.

"It 's queer," Dune continued, "how all the leadin'
men of the good old days are now workin' extra. To
hear 'em talk, you 'd think Mansfield would 'a' been
carryin' a spear, if it hadn't been for their splendid
support. No, Dan; these guys are anatomically shy a
funny-bone. And vain? S'help me, I b'lieve an ex-
tra man's dream of heaven would be to drive through
town in a pink automobile with his name painted on
the side!"

Of course Dune puts it a bit strong, even if there is
some truth in what he says. I myself think the extras
are funniest when they begin to tell you of the scenarios
they 've written. They always cast themselves for the
lead, but they never send their script in. Why would
they? The studios, they always say, would only steal
the ideas and send them back. That has been the ex-
perience of so many — ^to hear them tell it — that they
guard their secrets jealously. Unless you should ask
them ; then you are in for a bad two hours. It 's a
shame that these great dramas are doomed never to
dram ; but that 's always the way with genius !

You might not think, from lookin' at some of them,
that they would worry Francis X very much ; but that 's
because you 've never seen their pictures. Where they
get 'em is a secret of the dark-room, for it is hard to
b'lieve that science could be so inaccurate. Yet they
will flash carbon prints on you that would make a
marshmallow taste like a quinine capsule.

The reason that the "still men" all go crazy is due
to the pesterin' that these fellas give 'em. After a

SUPES AND SUPBEMBN 233

moving-picture is shot, the still man always sets up
his camera to take a picture, which will be used for
advertisin' purposes; and if a fella can crowd into a
good close-up alongside of the star, he '11 beg a print off
the still man, which he will carry until it is worn out,
showin' everyone how important he was in that story.
And if they can some day get the poor man to shoot a
still of 'em all alone, they have got photographic proof
that they were playin' at least second lead. Oh, but
best of all, if they can nail a few inches of film showin'
'em in a close-up, their immortality is fixed. What
manicure-girl wouldn't be impressed to see her cutie
in a close-up with Wallie Reid?

But, after all, I don't b'lieve that the stock actors and
leads are very different from the extra man in these
respects. I hear 'em all puUin' pretty much the same
patter. We 've got the largest If I Had That Fella's
Chance Club in the world.

It is n't everybody who knows his limitations as well
as Dune, and it isn't everybody who will listen to an-
other's estimate of himself as patient as I do.

"Dan," said he to me one day, "you 're not built like
the ApoUonaris Belverdere; nor have you a face like
Lillian Russell, but you make a good heavy; and when
you wore the tin cans in that Joan of Arc picture, you
were the grandest knight in the bunch ! And in comedy
you are sure funny! But that 's God's fault, not yours.
So, don't, I beg of you, ever spill this stuff about not
havin' a chance to show your art. If you 're goin' to
be an actor, try and be original."

That 's my number ; but I knew it before Dune called
it. I am perfectly resigned to stay within my limits

234 FILM POLK

— some day I '11 enlarge my limits ; but that 's another
matter — and I 'm happier for it. At least, I don't suffer
the shootin' pains of egosipelas, that dread disease which
claims so many of my brother artists. No ; Dune and I
decided that our physical and educational limitations
forbid us ever settin' the world on fire. But that re-
minds me that we come pretty darn' near doin' it once,
anyway.

FIGHTING ENOUGH FOR ALL

Late in the summer of '15 we went up into the Great
Tejunga to make some battle pictures, and we sure did
have the battle of our lives.

It was fearful rotten judgment that ordered a battle
picture in such a place before the rains had come.
Here was another place where the director could 'a'
learned a pile from the extras, for among them were
hundreds who knew the mountains well, and they freely
predicted the trouble we were in for. But, as uncon-
cerned as though we were pullin' stadio stuff, the
powder-monkeys were ordered to plant powder-bombs all
over the bloomin' landscape.

After the battle started, because of the dense smoke
from the bombs, the director did not notice that the
brush was afire in several places until it had got a
fierce start. When he saw what he had done, he or-
dered the picture stopped and for us to turn in and
fight fire.

Even on an apparently calm day there is likely to
be strong air drainage up those canons, and in less
than ten minutes the fire got started up the valley, and
all the devils from Cork to Connaught couldn't 'a'
stopped it.

SUPBS AND SUPERMEN 235

"When the director saw how futile our efforts were, he
told off some of the men to round up the scattered mem-
bers of the company, and the camera men were ordered
to kick in and get some good fire stuff. But the op-
portunity to get this wonderful film was denied us, for
we 'd no more 'n got started when four rangers rode
up; and, polite as en 'thin', one of 'em said he hated to
put us to any trouble, but that our Uncle Samuel gave
him authority to impress all able-bodied men into his
service to fight fire.

The director argued about the expense of his two
hundred men, and how he simply had to get back to
the studio ; but the ranger was cold-eyed and firm, and
the young cannon he toted in his belt was no prop.

So off we went in squads of fifty, under the leadership
of rangers, to see whether we could stop what we had
started. By this time it looked as though the whole
world was on fire; for miles the woods were burnin'
with a roar that was downright terrifyin'. Pretty soon
we were joined by other rangers, comin' from different
directions, and the way they went about their business
was inspirin'. If you 'd 'a' seen that fire and the hand-
ful of men who set out to stop it, you 'd 'a' thought
there wasn't a chance in the world. But fire-fightin'
was their business, and they didn't seem a bit discour-
aged. The rangers knew exactly what to do, and went
off with only a word from the head ranger.

THE MADNESS OP MR. MEADE

The thing that tickled me was the way the ranger
handed it to Meade, our leadin' man. Meade was mad
and indignant over the whole thing. He didn't think

236 FILM FOLK

the work was his social equal; and he didn't want to
soil his ridin '-panties and pretty putties. He beefed
so much about his troubles that the hard-hearted ranger
jest naturally picked him out for the hot stuff. The
way that poor milk-fed boy swat and swore kept the
rest of us good-humored all night.

I learned later that the studio had a fierce time
squarin' itself with the Forest Service for havin' started
the fire. Nowadays we 're not allowed to pull any of
that stuff without the presence of a ranger to show us
where to head in.

A mighty good feature of this studio is the Sugges-
tion Department; for, besides payin' a fella for any
notions he might have, it calls the attention of the man-
agement to your work. I made fifteen dollars one
month and twenty-five another by suggestin' some new
gags for the comedy stuff.

It 's curious that studios have personalities, jest like
cities. Dune and I beat it round for two years from
one to the other, and no two of them was alike. One
of the first places I worked in was well organized, effi-
cient, and apparently clean; but for some reason the
women didn't care for it. I made a pretty good guess
at the answer when I got acquainted with the manager.
Falstaff looked like a Saint Francis, by comparison.
Some studios are laid out like small fair-grounds, with
parks, walks, and gardens all round; then there are
others that look like the pictures of model towns — ^fine
concrete buildings, all in rows ; automatic sprinklers, and
clocks to punch. These latter are the cannin' factories ;
efficient as the devil, but about as inspirin' as a boiler-
shop.

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 237

Perhaps the most excitin' studios are those thrown
up by some new-rich fellas who are breakin' into the
pictures for the first time. Every gambler who ever
made any money out of a film success right away thinks
he is a producer, and, after roundin' up a million dollars
or less from his stock-jobbin' bunch, lands in Los
Angeles, leases ten acres, wishes together a big ram-
shackle studio, and starts takin' pictures. The pickin's
for the actors and directors are fine while they last;
but unfortunately — or fortunately for the public — the
company goes fluey about the third release.

Dune and I worked for six weeks at one of these
mushroom studios in a big American war drama; and
it was a riot. The directors were mostly dubs, and the
extras put it all over 'em. You may wonder how a
fella who was editin' a trade-paper last week, or a
well-bred 'rah- 'rah boy right outa papa's office in New
York, could jump in and start takin' pictures — even bad
ones! Well, it's the camera man that does it. They,
of course, must know the technic of a picture, and they
have to quietly coach the director, or the result would be
an awful mess. Whenever you see a new director
standin' close up to the camera man and talkin' as
though he was givin' him instructions, you can make a
fair bet that he is askin' the boy who turns the crank
what he thinks of the action.

THE DIRECTOR GETS THE HOOK

I 'm afraid I was responsible for the cannin' of one
director at this studio. He was a vain devil, ignorant
and abusive, and thought he had to show everyone in
the cast how to do the least thing. The trouble came

238 FILM FOLK

because about forty of us who were workin' in a big
scene couldn't help laughin' in the presence of death.
After all, it 's human nature to cry at weddin's and
laugh at funerals ; so there was no particular reason for
him to get so miffed.

The king had been eatin' too many tarts, or sunthin',
and was lyin' in a great canopied bed, sufferin' from
royal cramps; and, while thus indulgin', he was sup-
posed to cash in, with all the chamberlains and chamber-
maids of the royal apartments standin' round registerin'
royal grief.

"Well, the king gent didn't seem to be pullin' his
demise as the director thought a king would, and he be-
came angry and abusive. "Don't you know how to die,
you great big fish? Well I '11 show you !" he screamed,
and rushed over as though he intended to punch the
head of our beloved monarch; but instead of that, he
jumped into bed, shoes and all, kicked the king out on
the far side, and then gave his ideas of the croakin' of a
king.

His Highness looked so pathetically absurd, standin'
there takin' lessons in deathcraft from such a mad and
excited near-corpse, that we all burst out laughin'. This
made the director so furious that he jumped out from
under his royal tent and bawled us out most scandal-
ously. He ripsnorted round until his buttons were aU
over the place.

When he had us all properly squelched, he started
the scene all over again, and the poor old king did his
gol-damedest to die accordin' to the script. When he
got to the final spasm and began to roll his eyes, I
thought of how funny the director looked in bed with

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 239

his boots on, and I let out a little snort. Some one else
giggled, and we were all howlin' again.

The director jest turned white and began to rave,
stompin' round like he was in a padded cell. Then he
pulled a line of profanity that no woman should have
heard ; so I drilled up to him and told him that he 'd
have to cut out that talk; that it wasn't nice. Then
he turned loose on me.

Jest at that moment the general manager, hearin' the
noise, came along; and, seein' the director's rage, called
him aside and says : "I 'm afraid, Mr. Weldon, that you
are temper 'mentally unfit to handle men. I '11 ask Mr.
Davis, your assistant, to finish the scene, and you come
with me until you are feelin' calmer." We heard next
day that he was fired.

After our first start on this business, Dune and I
decided to move along slowly on legitimate lines, rather
than to go after the swollen wages of the daredevils.

WHEN DAREDEVILS AKE HURT

Some of the daredevils are in the garage most of
the time; but, of course, the company has 'em all in-
sured. If a fella is hurt doin' ten-dollar stuff, he gets
ten dollars a day for two weeks; after that he draws
sixty-five per cent, of the wages he was workin' at for
fifty-two weeks, if he 's in the hospital that long. Then
they stand suit for damages, or settle. If a chap 's
killed, no doubt the studio will buy him a handsome
satin-lined wooden overcoat; but as yet few have at-
tained that raiment.

Here 's a funny one : A fella, whose name I 've for-
gotten, was notorious for his daredeviltry, and, curiously.

240 FILM FOLK

had never once been to the hospital; but one beautiful
summer day he was quietly drivin' his girl to the beach
when he was run into by a speediu' flivver, and darned
if he was n't killed, though the girl did n't get a scratch !

You must n't get the idea that all the dangerous stuff
is done by professionals. Some of these poor extra
devils get so hard up that they become desperate and
will offer to do en 'thin' for a few dollars; and they are
usually the ones who are hurt. I 've seen no end of 'em
jump into the ocean when they couldn't swim a stroke.
They 'd take a chance o' drownin' before they 'd lose
that three dollars.

I remember one wild-eyed fella who offered to do a
fall from an aeropleine for five dollars. "Fact is," said
he, "there are two things I can do before I starve:
One is to risk my life for a picture, and the other is to
steal. As my life doesn't seem to be worth a damn,
I think I '11 take the risk. Besides, the finish would be
finer!"

"Whenever we do water stuff some of us find out those
who can't swim, and then we arrange to have good
swimmers go in close by, so they can help 'em to a
landin'.

The cowboys are another type of daredevil; but, as
their risks are rare, they either work on regular salary
or as ordinary extras, gettin' extra pay for any danger-
ous ridin' or falls they have to make.

They are the hardest-workin' and most conscientious
extras in the game. They tend mostly to their own
business, but will do any darned thing the management
asks them. They 've got no highfalutin' notions that
manual labor will ruin their art. They are also the

SUPBS AND SUPERMEN 241

happiest bunch on the lot, doin' a pile of skylarkin'.

Cowboys are used in all parts requirin' good horse-
manship — cavalry, Cossacks, and even polo-players ; and,
of course, doublin' with the leads in all dangerous
ridin'.

Some time ago, when the studios had cowboys on
regular salary, they got from thirty to forty dollars a
month, and found; but those were the days when every-
one was makin' Westerns. Europe bein' the biggest
buyer of this class of pictures, there has been a big
slump in Westerns since the war. Nowadays the cow-
boys are free-lancin' it, jest like the others.

If a Western picture is bulletined at a studio now,
it 's very amusiu' to see how the ordinary extras will
try to break in. They 'U tear downtown, rent a pair of
chaps and a big hat, turn up at the studio chewin'
tobacco or roUin' brown-paper cigarettes; and then stand
round bow-legged, hopin' that they look like regular
cowboys.

"If your face was your fortune, Dan," said Dune
one day, "you 'd be in the hands of a receiver. But,
at that, you need your old pam to stick grease-paint on,
so you 'd better shy the daredevil stuff. And as neither
of us has ridden en 'thin' but the brake-beams, I guess
we 'd better not imitate the cowboys."

No, siree! We two old battle-axes stuck strictly to
our knittin'; and we were goin' to arrive, if my good
health and Dune's brains were worth en 'thin' to us.

DATS THAT COULD NOT LAST

The copy-books also say that excellence will tell;
and in this great big, seethin' bunch it ought to be easy

242 FILM POLK

to hear it, if it tells ever so little. When I saw that most
extras were jest check-grabbers, and when I 'd sneak up
on about forty, loafin' and smokin* in the scene docks,
I thought to myself there was a good chance, even for a
coupla fellas like Dune and me.

Once in a while a guy breaks into the extra game
who has education, culture, and all the trimmin's that
go to make a success. If they get a chance, they do well,
too. But they don't get many chances, for the directors
know the type well. The trouble is booze. They are
not dependable, and this business requires that quality
above all others. I met one, an Eastern college fella
who 'd been in the shippin' business in Boston, but had
gone to the devil with liquor. He 'd come all the way
to California to work outdoors, thinkin' the state was
goin' dry.

Mr. Mills, the big director of our studio, took me aside
the other day and gave me some valuable tips. He
says I 've got a fine picture sense, and could work into
the technical department if I had more of an education.
Well, a lot of people have got an education when they
were much older than thirty-three. When I see the care
and trouble that the Eesearch Department goes to in or-
der to get accurate sets, I realize that a fella 'd have
to be mighty well-informed to hook up with them.

If you are observin', you can learn no end of things
right on the lot. Think of havin' the whole world come
to you — foreign lands, streets, houses^ anilnals, and
people, absolutely true in every detail ! I 've gone from
Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand —
all in one day.

And, to prove that the copy-books are right, my

SUPES AND SUPERMEN 243

perseverance has landed me in stock at thirty-five a
week. This is all the more notable, for of late the studios
have been cuttin' down their stock. At present most of
'em are employin' only a few leads and character peo-
ple, and hire a whole new crew for each picture.

That 's why workin' extra has become so respectable
of late. We used to look with awe— if not admiration
— up to the stock actor; but nowadays the ranks are
so full of 'em, who are glad enough to work for even
a few days, that to work extra no longer means social
inferiority.

No doubt the present arrangement is good business,
but it 's pretty tough on the actors. But, alas, those
gorgeous get-rieh-quick days couldn't last forever.

VI

"MOTHER, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?"

(THE STUDIO MOTHER TELLS OP THE
EXTRA GIRLS)

MANY people consider the discovery of scientific
motherhood the one triumph of this gloomy old
century. Certainly it must be obvious to anyone who
reads up-to-date literature on the subject that our grand-
mothers were perfect pikers at bringing up children.
We have become the splendid folk we are despite our
mothering, not because of it. Take me, for instance.
Here I am, putting it all over the old woman who lived
in a shoe; for if I didn't know exactly what to do with
my threescore children, I could n't hold my job for thirty
minutes. A studio mother has, at times, as many as
three hundred daughters to look after, and their well-
being is a complex responsibility that no old woman
could possibly encompass, however sprightly.

Her position grew out of the necessity the big com-
panies were under to pull order out of the chaos that
accompanied the mushroom growth of the moving-pic-
ture industry in its early years.

The Big Fish were so excited over their profits in
those fairy days that they did not interest themselves
in the local management of their studios. The employ-

244

"MOTHER, MAT I GO IN THE FILMS?" 245

ing and chaperoning of the girls, for instance, was left
to the individual director. If the individual happened
to be a gentleman, well and good ; but in my recollection
of the directors of that period there were very few of
them who would have been medaled for gentility. In
fact, so shameless was the behavior of some, that min-
isters investigated, women's clubs whereased, and uplift
ladies went snooping about. We were in a constant
state of "in bad" with the board of education and the
probation officers of the juvenile court ; but the real blow
came when one notorious character from a very un-
pleasant studio was run out of town. Then all the
managers sat up.

My appointment as studio mother did not come as an
entire surprise to me, for I had been acting unofficially
in that capacity for some time.

When musical comedy petered out, some eight or ten
years ago, George and I beat it right for the coast to work
in the pictures. Those were the dear old days of the
hair-pants stories; and as George was built like these
boys of the clothing advertisements, he made a perfectly
grand Eastern hero for the Western stuff. But alas!
his poor little blond wife was not designed for riding
bucking broncs or brake-beams, and she could be used
only at those times when they wanted a sugary little
thing from the city to emphasize the splendid heroism of
the Girl of the Golden West.

THE PKOPESSIONAIi CHAPERON

Where George ever got his elaborate knowledge of sin
he has never satisfactorily explained; but when I was
finally taken in stock, and began by natural instinct to

246 FILM FOLK

mother the girls, George would kick in with an almost
psychic understanding of what was going on, and he
would give me the number of every man on the lot.
Then I, in turn, would warn the older girls and try to
protect the younger ones.

When the storm of public protest came, George went
to Mr. Graham, the manager, and suggested to him the
creation of the job of studio mother; and he did not
omit to state that Mrs. George was the natural selection
for the post.

Calling me into his ofiSce, the big chief said:

"Mrs. Baron, do you think you could handle the
girls of the company, if I should give you full authority ?
George says you are the only one here qualified for the
job, and I 'm inclined to agree with him."

"Well, Mr. Graham, you may think that I just hate
myself, but I agree heartily with both of you ; in fact, it
was I who suggested the scheme and appointed myself
to the position. So, if you will ratify my plans and
incidentally adjust my salary to its new responsibilities,
I '11 promise that this studio will suffer no further em-
barrassment in the public prints."

Thus began the first position of this kind, I think, in
the moving-picture world. Since then every studio has
adopted the scheme in greater or less degree.

The greatest power placed in my hands was the ex-
clusive employing of all women of the cast. This was
an awful blow to certain directors who constantly sur-
rounded themselves with favorites. I recall one fellow
who, while waiting for a set, would preen and strut
about like a popinjay, his little court paying homage
to him wherever he went. Sometimes he would become

"MOTHEE, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 247

very thoughtful; and while he paced back and forth
across the stage, his girls would sit round and raptly
listen to the workings of his great mind. When shoot-
ing a picture, he directed with all the magnificence of the
Sultan of Doodad uttering ukases to his court puppets.
Seated in a great chair, he would order his court ladies
to range themselves in a semicircle round his feet; and
as he directed the picture he would carelessly play with
the golden locks of one worshiping favorite.

Imagine, then, his horror when he learned that his
selective powers had been usurped by a little, timid
woman ! Br-r-r-r-r-r-r ! He 'd resign — and a lot of
other horrific things! But he didn't.

No girls other than recognized actresses are engaged
except through me; directors and actors can no longer
employ any foolish young girl who happens to take their
fancy.

The first thing I did as employer of the girls was to
demand very minute credentials. If a girl was a ward
of the juvenile court, I consulted with the probation offi-
cer ; and, unless she was hopelessly bad, I gave her every
chance to make good and saw that she reported to the
court at the appointed times. Other girls had to have
permits from their guardians or parents, or, if they were
over age, were required to furnish sponsors.

THE LITTLE RED SCHOOL-HOUSE

Youngsters of school age had to bring permits from
the board of education; and, on my part, I had to see
that they received the proper school training of four
hours a day. For this purpose we erected a little red
school-house on the lot, with a regularly certificated

248 FILM FOLK

teacher in charge. Though we paid the teacher 's salary,
the school was under the supervision of the board of
education. The board insisted, for instance, that the
school hours should be from ten to twelve £ind four to six ;
so directors using minors had to accommodate their
shooting to those hours. Two or three young girls who
have since achieved stardom attended this little studio
school during the years of their minority.

Next to their employment, the chaperoning of the girls
while on the lot was the most important job of the studio
mother. Men were absolutely forbidden to go near the
women's dressing-rooms; and after the girls were made
up, they had to report to me for inspection.

If I could not personally chaperon a certain set, I
appointed one of the older stock women to perform that
function.

So many employees about a studio are engaged in
capacities other than acting that the employment of all
the members of a family is made very easy ; and the more
enlightened managers encourage it, since it tends to sta-
bility. I know of one manager who has none but mar-
ried people in his employ. Thus, some of the companies
— especially the older ones — become like one great fam-
ily, happy and loyal, but with all the heartaches incident
to such an arrangement. One of the leading women in
a studio where I worked for a year was the wife of the
laboratory superintendent; her daughter played second
leads and her son was a camera kid. Very often a man
and his wife, or a brother and sister, are working at the
same studio.

I also encouraged the girls to invite their mothers to
the studio, and there were always a few of them in at-

"MOTHEE, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 249

tendance. If I had to send a bunch off on location, I
sometimes signed checks for a few mothers, so that they
could go along as part of the official cast. They would
take their sewing and spend a delightful day in the
country, while the girls cavorted before the camera.

One winter, at night, we rehearsed two hundred and
fifty girls for some dancing scenes in huge sets ; and for
this work I needed very elaborate chaperon assistance.
To show the amazing cost of modem productions, I might
parenthetically remark that, after paying the salaries of
the participants and twenty-five dollars a night to the
dancing-masters, the picture was on the screen for less
than half a minute.

Another duty I usurped was the selection of girls for
dancing, bathing, or other scenes where their figures were
an important part of the beauty of the picture. In the
old days girls often went on location and were asked to
do unwise or dangerous stunts. I made it my business
to know whether every girl was fit before permitting her
to do anything that might jeopardize her health.

After six months of this regime I was able to change
the whole atmosphere of the place. I got to know all the
extra girls in town, weeded out the most objectionable,
and by a few drastic examples made the women realize
that any excessive vulgarity or rough stuff would mean
immediate dismissal.

These first few months of my new job were full of
intense interest to any one who likes people. The human
procession that passed my window contained everything
in the feminine gender, from pale little babies to the
great inlaid dowagers from the big hotels. But having
to refuse ninety-nine per cent, of all applicants finally

250 FILM FOLK

began to pall upon me. Being naturally affirmative, the
role of sublime refuser depressed me. Often in
desperate cases my maternal instincts were so roused that
I felt compelled to "dig"; but George came down hard
and soon convinced me of the utter futility of my
charity.

AliL KINDS OP APPLICANTS

At last, by very careful selection and cataloguing of
the girls' attributes and capabilities, I had a system of
registration that included all the studio's wants; and
I could then send for extras as we needed them. This
relieved the employing bureau of eighty per cent, of its
former task.

The form of application the aspirants made out will
explain the way we catalogued the potential Juliets. It
contained blanks for name, address, telephone, line of
business, age — oh, the years that were shed in those
spaces ! — ^height, weight, hair — changed upon the slight-
est hint that it would not photograph — eyes, chest, waist,
nationality, ride, swim, drive auto, dance, fence,
specialty, wardrobe, and experience.

The filling in of these blanks is the brightest spot in
the day 's work. We do not expect them to tell the truth
about their ages — it 's against nature ; so we always write
in the age we think they are. Only yesterday a dear old
lady, whom I would have sworn to be sixty-five, wrote
herself down as forty. When I told her to tell the truth
and then perhaps I could use her, she looked flabber-
gasted. She was sixty-eight, and imagined that she
could never land at such an age; but she didn't know
that old ladies with sweet faces, if they can act ever so

"MOTHER, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 251

little, are quite rare types, and that the studios often seek
them in vain. There is something all wrong in a world
that sends to my window so many old faces full of sad-
ness or the hard lines of care.

If I saw only the tragedy of my children, I never could
have stuck so long at my job ; but it has its humors, too.
Under the head of "specialty" is where the greatest fun
of the application blanks comes in. One underscores the
fact that she can wiggle her ears ; another can eat glass ;
while a third can make a face like a fish — "Good in
comedy," she adds. There is no end of those who can
weep, and you 'd believe it if you could see the poor
things ; in fact, many of them demonstrate it when they
are refused. One young lady recorded, under the head
of specialty, that she was "twins" ; another's accomplish-
ments were vicariously expressed with a trick dog. I
have one card which insists that the singer, a girl of fif-
teen, swam the Golden Gate; another's specialty con-
sisted in a relationship to a certain politician; while a
woman of fifty-two claims ability to stay under water
three minutes and eat six bananas while so enmoistured.
Several creatures can handle snakes ; and every girl can
dance, including one that my old George insists has a
wooden leg.

When it comes to writing down their experiences, some
of them must have been to school at Occultonia; for
reincarnation only can explain how one young lady of
twenty-six could have understudied Agnes Stone in the
Original Bostonians. Another was with Edna May in
the Belle of New York. If she was there in this life,
she must have been a whopping infant !

Prom the application blanks, registration cards are

252 FILM FOLK

made out and filed away under various heads, such as
matrons, young girls, children, chorus types, fat, thin,
Japs, Mexicans, models, acrobats, dancers, cow-girls,
character women, and so on.

Notwithstanding that we have these lists, applicants
come in droves, many of them thinking their personal
appearance will help land a job for a few days' work.
Every morning at eight o'clock, when I open my window,
I steel my heart for the great refusal. The first, a little
pale-faced woman, will read it in my eyes, and pass on
without a word ; next, a great big hundred-and-seventy-
pound doll, cinched up so that she can breathe only from
the face out, will want to know whether there is any-
thing in "soup and fish," as she has some swell clothes.
Nothing doing !

A giggling kid, with molasses-candy hair and a sport
coat, splashes up with aggressive buoyancy. She has
brought her grips and is ready to go right to work.
Flashing a certificate from the Feature Photodramatic
School of Bird Center, she titters:

"Oh, Mrs. Baron, I 'm so glad to see you at last!
I 've come all the way from Indiana to act in moving-
pictures. I have a letter to you from Mr. Filmflam, my
dear teacher. I 'm one of his best graduate expression-
ists, and he says I make lovely gestures."

"I 'm sorry, dear; but I never heard of Mr. Filmflam,
and human certificates are the only ones this studio
honors. The fact is, I have over one hundred and fifty
girls of your type already registered ; yet we rarely use
them, because we have a preferred list of about twenty
who have first call on all pictures.

"MOTHER, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 253

"You had better not go to any other studios until
you have consulted with Miss Kingdon, our city mother.
She will advise, and perhaps help you get work. Here,
take this card."

THE PARASITE MOTHERS

Next comes one of the parasitic mothers who live upon
their young. She exhibits a commonplace little child, all
gooed up with paint and peroxide, who is to be started
young; for the mother thinks, in the back of her poor
little head, that the youngster will put the family on
Easy Street.

"We are using no children this week, madam."

"Next week?"

"No; I'm afraid not."

But what 's this, looking up from under the edge of
her rakish lid? As I live, another veimp. And only
eighteen years old! How pale and white she looks!
And see those sad and sinful eyes, sleeping in their sea-
green sockets!

"Child, I 'd be afraid to turn you loose upon the lot
in that make-up. You might vamp the boss, and then
the studio would close down and we 'd all be out of jobs.
Now run right home and wash your face. You '11 never
get anywhere with that one."

"Good morning, Carrie! No, dear; not to-day. Mr.
Condon is starting a costume picture next week, and as
he is partial to your type you probably can get on.
I '11 let you know."

"Ah, Carmelita! You got my message? Mr. Good-
hue is starting a picture called A Romance of the

254 FILM FOLK

Mission, and he asked me to get him some pretty Span-
ish girls. Run along and find Josefa and Ynez, and
return. ' '

"Mrs. Baron? Mrs. Baron, I 've thought over my life
from every angle and I 've come to the positive conclu-
sion that I have a moving-picture soul. I only want a
chance."

"Madam," I reply, "you are suffering from what we
call cinemasipelas ; but in your case it hasn't got very
far. Now run right back and wash the dishes, do the
housework, and when the children are off at school throw
yourself on the bed and have a good cry ; and if you cry
hard enough, you may cry your movie soul out, and then
you '11 be weU. I 've known hundreds of women in your
fix, and they aU tell me that when they are cured they
can make better marmalade."

There is probably nothing that so clutters up the
making of moving-pictures as souls a-boming. We
develop a new one almost every day; and sometimes in
the big mob scenes you can hear them popping all over
the lot. Occasionally a man gets a soul; and when he
does he 's the most awful spectacle imaginable, and his
usefulness usually ends with its birth. "Women's souls
are not nearly so beautiful as men's, but they occur
oftener.

About half the women who apply for work are suf-
fering from soul birth and "simply have to act." They
have been called by funny noises in the head ; and there-
fore they write or come in person in answer to the
call.

If you want to know what dreadful ogres the keepers
of the gates of Movie Land are, just ask any of these

"MOTHER, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 255

soul-encumbered ladies. "We are "fixed"; "play fa-
vorites"; are "open to bribery"; "don't know talent
when we see it"; and other delicious things. But this
we do know : the actor with a soul is a pest ; and, rather
than have the director come and kick us on the shins for
unloading, one on him, we try to administer the chloro-
form at the window.

There are, however, more sordid reasons that prompt
many women to apply. Some, though apparently well
cared for, simply wish to be independent of their hus-
bands: "Harry is a perfect dear, and gives me every-
thing ; but I want to earn some money for my very own.
But he must n't know what I am doing, for he 'd be
dreadfully cut up if he thought I was working in the
pictures."

The most puzzling applicants are those who come
asking for work and hoping they will not find it. I had
two such cases in one day last week. The second one
quite audibly said "Thank heaven!" when I told her
there was no work. Even George can't give me the
answer to this conundrum.

With many of the applicants, though, it is a case of
serious necessity ; they simply have to find work. And if
they do land, they are very much more reliable than
those who come in through pull. A short time ago a tall,
capable-looking woman of about thirty came to the
window and demanded work. She said her husband,
who was in Alaska, could n't get money to her until the
boats got through in May. We were just putting on a
snow picture up in Bear Valley, and as she could handle
dogs and run snow-shoes, we took her on ; and she proved
to be a crackajack.

256 FILM FOLK

A DANGEROUS EPIDEMIC

It 's queer how much more persistent in applying
for work the women are than the men. Women will
argue, plead, lie, and resort to every feminine trick to
get work ; but if the employment director merely shakes
his head, the men will pass right on. I sat in with Mr.
Gersted the other day, and I could n't fail to notice how
much simpler his job was than mine. As the men filed
by he would shake his head, or simply say: "Nothing
to-day. Miller." "They are using old men at Fox this
week, Pete." "Sorry, Smith; nothing doing."
"Here's your cheek, Rubinoff. Eeport to Mr. Davies.
Western stuff. " " Nothing to-day, Kuiz ; but bring your
little boy round at three o'clock. Mr. Lamed is making
a hospital picture." "Sorry, Piatt. I did not get a
very good report on you from San Francisco. They tell
me you got drunk on the boat going up. I wouldn't
waste time coming here any more."

Here is another factor that limits the chances of the
outsider wishing to break into the extra class. At least
fifty per cent, of all people now working extra are rela-
tions of the directors, camera men, stuges, carpenters,
and other workers on the lot. It is perfectly natural
that we should want to land the good jobs for our fam-
ilies and friends. Furthermore, the studio encourages
the practice, for it tends to stability. And as for a
girl, if it is known that her father or brother is work-
ing, she has a protection that no studio mother could
give.

The accusation is often made that we favor the rela-
tions and friends of the directors, and that their sisters

a

3s

o

o

"MOTHER, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 257

and cousins and aunts always draw down the big
checks, while the rest of the bunch have to be contented
with the two-dollar and three-dollar stuff. This is
largely true. As my job is to furnish a satisfactory
cast for the director, who am I to deny him if he thinks
his sister ought to have a "bit"? If the picture is
'rotten, it 's his fault ; and if he wants to risk his judg-
ment, he is perfectly privileged to commit artistic
suicide.

The desire to act upon the screen is, however, by no
means confined to studio towns. It is nation-wide; it
has, in fact, assumed the proportions of an epidemic.

A girl works joyfully in a soap factory or the base-
ment of a department store for ten happy hours, and in
the evening goes to a picture show. Here she sees a new
world of romance, adventure, and fun. Before her eyes
passes a kaleidoscope of pretty clothes, automobiles, gay
suppers, beach-bathing, and a million other things she
suddenly realizes she has missed. Her life seems now to
be gray and dull, and she begins to dream and mope.

GIELS WITH MOVIE SOULS

But we must not let the sympathy we feel for this poor
child apply to her gum-chewing sister in the music de-
partment ; for the urge of this chicken-minded youngster
is simply vanity. She is firmly convinced that the late
movie favorite is a dub, and if she had only half her
chance, she 'd show the fans some real actmg. When
her soul develops to the proper size, she hies forth to a
near-by town to enter a moving-picture school that
guarantees to place all of its students with some famous
company.

258 FILM FOLK

When one of our leading women made a well-adver-
tised auto-trip across the country, she was overwhelmed
at every stop by hysterical kids like this, who wanted to
kiss the hem of her dust-coat, or be taken along. Some
of them even jumped on the running-board and had to
be torn from the fairy chariot by sheer force.

It is just as well that Los Angeles is so far away ; for
if every girl who feels this thrill could make the grade,
our city would soon become the center of population. As
it is, enough of them arrive to overwhelm the studios and
embarrass the authorities.

Letters come in such quantities that many studios
have given up any attempt to answer them ; so I am going
to take this opportunity to tell my poor soul-stirred sis-
ters the truth about this business.

The fake schools about the country are responsible for
most of the trouble. They "graduate" hundreds of
girls, who come out here without a chance in the world.

A unique feature of this city is its "mothers." There
are ten, I think, appointed by the mayor for the purpose
of looking after our girls. These city mothers chaperon
the municipal dances, attend all juvenile-court proceed-
ings, take care of delinquents, and in every way mother
the dependent girls. So serious became the problem of
handling the girls with movie souls who flocked here
that the mayor appointed one of our leading actresses as
a city mother just to look after these cases. In this ca-
pacity she advises with the girls, gets them jobs in the
shops or as domestic servants, or arranges with the auth-
orities of their home towns to send them back. By a
tireless campaign of speeches she finally enlisted the co-
operation of certain civic bodies, which succeeded in

"MOTHEE, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 259

driving out the fake moving-picture schools advertising
in the East and Middle West. The effectiveness of her
work is shown in a marked degree in the decreasing num-
ber of these girls who have become public charges.
However, there are yet so many such schools about the
country that a knowledge of their methods may save
many heartaches to unhappy little girls.

A favorite mode of operation is somewhat as follows :
The school agrees, for a certain sum, say, twenty-five
dollars — ^sometimes more — to prepare anyone for the
screen. A lack of natural ability and "a face that only
a mother could love" are no handicaps. When the vic-
tim has kicked in the twenty-five dollars, she is lined up
with the others and is given her lessons. These consist
in distending their foolish faces in vain efforts to register
fear, anger, surprise, love, sorrow, and other human emo-
tions ; if you ever catch Minnie mugging before a mirror,
you will know she has cinemasipelas and is probably
attending a movie school. After a few weeks of this
futile bunk the "director" takes a few feet of test film
and, with this and her certificate, the future movie queen
is loaded upon a train for Los Angeles. Both of her
credentials are, of course, worthless.

New slants on the old fraud are constantly developing.
Here is one that just came to me: A fellow went into
secret partnership with a photographer, and after start-
ing his so-called school, the fee of which was so low that
no end of girls bit, he started teaching his students
make-up; but, in order to find out whether the results
were photographically good, the victims had to have their
pictures taken by the silent partner. By the lure of a
great pageant, which he was shortly to produce, he man-

260 FILM FOLK

aged to hold their interest. Passing out the script, he
had them all competing for the leading parts ; and those
who photographed best would, of course, get the plums.
The photographer did one whale of a business ; but as the
pageant was constantly postponed, the aspirants either
grew tired of waiting or their money was gone ; and, one
at a time, they all dropped out.

One of the meanest tricks came to light a short time
ago through the testimony of several girls under the care
of the city mother. A handsome traveling-salesman for
some prosperous company, who wished to lighten up his
evenings, evolved this snappy little plan. Having some
cards printed proclaiming him to be George Henry So-
and-So, director of the Bunkoscope Moving-Picture
Company, of Los Angeles, he would attend the big de-
partment store of the village at the rush hour and prowl
about "looking for types." "When he found some good-
looking kid who appeared vain and easy, he would go up
and, while he presented his card, begin to rave. He
would tell her that she was exactly the type he needed to
play the lead in a new story the company was about to
produce. All that afternoon the child is delirious with
her dream. She meets George Henry for supper; and
then — well, it 's the same old tiresome tale.

NO ROOM FOR GLADYS BADEGG

It is bad enough to have every notoriety-seeking girl
who gets into a jam claim that she is a moving-picture
actress; but to have these gentlemen unloaded on us is
too much. So the studios are endeavoring to have legis-
lation passed making it a criminal offense to claim con-
nection with a moving-picture company, unless the claim-

"MOTHER, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 261

ant can prove the company's existence and his connec-
tion with it.

In order to look after the girls already working in
the pictures, a few of the leading women of the industry
organized the Hollywood Studio Club, a branch of the
T. W. C. A., where all the girls can meet and get ac-
quainted with one another. It 's a godsend to the kids
who have no place to go except to bat round the town.
"We have teas, garden parties, studio dances, and all kinds
of stunts that bring the bunch together; and if a girl
gets down on her luck, she can stay at the club until
she lands on her feet again.

These little heart-to-heart talkfests exhibit a very
curious difference between men extras and women extras
in their attitude toward their work. "When a bunch of
men get together they seem to be interested only in what
they are earning, and talk only about their pay-cheeks ;
and though these material souvenirs mean more to
women than to men, yet they gossip entirely about their
parts, clothes, make-up, and other things pertaining to
their "art."

There are some, of course, whose only thought is of
clothes. One girl came to me who had spent a thou-
sand dollars on her wardrobe and expected to break ia
with it. She will never get beyond working as at-
mosphere in the "soup and fish" stuff, for her clothes
are her only capital; she can't act for beans!

There is occasionally a loose-minded creature who be-
lieves the suspicion that there is but one way a girl can
surely land. One came to me last week and announced
that if I knew a director who would put her over, she
would "pay anything."

262 FILM POLK

"My dear young idiot," I replied, "directors are not
fools. And one who would try to star a girl with no
more to offer than you have would absolutely end his
usefulness. Directors have no cinch on their jobs, and
hold them only so long as their work comes up to the
standard of the studio. Besides, I employ all the girls
on this lot ; so you 'd better beat it before I call the
policewoman."

So persistently does this stigma hold over from the
old days that we are especially alert to the game. Mr.
MUls, the director-general of this studio, is so particular
that he cans a person who is in the least suspicious. On
various occasions he has employed detectives as stage
carpenters or extra men, to watch the crowds and weed
out the rotten ones. He claims that good work cannot
be done in an unpleasant atmosphere.

It is even a rule of our studio that the cast can-
not frequent the cabarets and public dance-halls. We
don't want people pointing out our girls and say-
ing : ' ' There 's Gladys Badegg, of the Filmart
Studio ! ' ' These are hard days for the Badeggs to break
in.

Even after a girl has satisfied us as to her character,
ability, and health, she has one more obstacle to over-
come before she is taken on. No matter how pretty she
is in the flesh, she may photograph badly ; so we always
make tests of her in different scenes and under various
lights. Often, if the candidate seems promising, we
make as much as a thousand feet of film. These tests
sometimes compel us to turn down a girl with exceptional
talent and stunning beauty; but alas! it will be the kind
of beauty that will not register.

"MOTHER, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 263

THE SAINT VITUS SCHOOIi OP ACTING

A good, thorough test is a mighty trying ordeal to the
poor girl who is in for it. An interior set may be used
first. The nervous hopeful takes her place, and then the
director says:

"Now, Miss Blank, you are discovered sitting before
the fire in thoughtful reverie; you hear a noise; and,
slowly turning the head, you notice a face at the window ;
you stand up horrified; rush to the door; find it locked;
look in despair toward the window, but, ah, there is the
telephone! You rush for it and, facing the camera,
call up 31046; while waiting, you register great agita-
tion; it is too late! The man is in the room. As he
advances you rush to the door again ; and, finding it still
locked, you drop down in utter collapse. Now let's run
through this."

If the young lady's work is satisfactory, the director
will then take her to the glass studio and put her through
some quiet, sentimental scene under the ghastly yellow
lights there. A few feet, out in the sunlight, will com-
plete the test.

I recall one dynamic young thing who had never acted,
but claimed that she could do emotional stuff.

"AU right," said the director; "let's see you weep."
Then he went on: "I am your husband, and I 'm leav-
ing you for the tall blonde who is waiting outside. Now
let 's see how you 'd behave. ' '

Well, that 's the last time this director ever suggested
such a scene, with himself playing opposite the neglected
wife. The embryonic Duse began to scream and yell
until, even in a place inured to strange and awful noises,

264 FILM FOLK

she brought frightened folk from every corner of
the lot. They came running from all directions, only
to behold one of the most dignified directors on the lot
being hauled and mauled all over the set. The young
lady evidently had breakfasted on firecrackers, for when
she was touched off she was an emotional set piece. Her
ravings and pleadings became so hysterical that even the
director, appreciating the joke, let her rave. After she
had nearly torn the clothes off the poor man, he managed
to make his exit ; and then she began to register despair
by ripping at her own stuff, actually tearing to shreds a
perfectly good hat that had probably set her back fifteen
dollars. She would have been glorious ten years ago,
when the Saint Vitus school of acting was so fashion-
able in the movies.

Sometimes, but not often, a girl will break into the
pictures simply by outwitting the opposition. One of
our youngest stock actresses told me how she bombarded
a New York studio every day for six weeks and never so
much as got on the lot. She thought if she could just get
inside, she might make her presence felt. Her frontal
attacks having failed, she tried strategy. So one morn-
ing she walked right past the waiting line and started
through the gate. The monster in charge stopped her,
of course ; but she explained to him that she had worked
there the day before and had left a pair of gold slippers
in the dressing-room, and just wanted to run in and get
them, as she needed them at the Wachimacalut Studio,
where she was working that day. Suspicious old nut
that he was, the gatekeeper fell for the stall and let
her in.

"MOTHEE, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 265

Once inside, she took off her hat and coat, and loafed
round as though she was waiting to go on. About ten
o'clock a busy, nervous sort of chap bounced up and
asked her with whom she was working.

'I don't think Mr. Thorp is going to use me after
aU," she said truthfully ; "so if you want me I 'm pretty
sure it would be all right. ' '

"Then beat it right over to the property room and get
a long rain-coat and a hat-box, and then run out and get
into the third machine by the north entrance. We ought
to have left here an hour ago. ' '

Having been registered in several scenes that day, she
was told to report the next morning ; in fact, that picture
kept her on the lot for two weeks, during which time she
was able to cinch her job.

I think, for real intelligent persistence in landing a
movie job, the prize should go to a little girl who is con-
nected in an odd way with our studio. Three years ago
she was living in far-off Bohemia, dreaming that she had
a moving-picture soul and deciding in her little heart
that she was some day to be a movie queen. She had
seen several of our pictures and determined that she was
destined for this particular studio. The story of her
two-years trip to Los Angeles was not unusual — steerage
to New York, where she had relatives ; six months learn-
ing the language and working in domestic service ; then
Chicago, Salt Lake City, San Francisco, and finally Los
Angeles. There is nothing in this that deserves especial
comment ; but the way this young foreigner planned her
assault upon Movie Land is unique in my very extensive
observations.

266 FILM FOLK

THE END OF MINNIE 'S DREAM I

"Wien she landed here she knew nobody, but through
the municipal employment bureau got a job in domestic
service. For several weeks she just studied the lay of
the land, but never once went to the studio. After learn-
ing that many of our actors and actresses lunched at a
place nearby, she watched her chance and one day got a
job waiting on the table at this place. Here, sooner or
later, she was bound to get acquainted with some of the
leads.

This she did ; and so well liked was she that, when she
offered her services to Miss Kingdon as lady's maid,
she was taken on at once.

At last she was within reach of her goal. Her new po-
sition brought her to the studio every day, and after she
felt well-enough acquainted, she confessed her secret
ambitions to me.

"Minnie," I said, 'you are not pretty and you prob-
ably can't act a bit; but some day I '11 use you in mob
stuff, and then you can see for yourself."

Shortly after this conversation we were putting on a
French Revolution story, and as Minnie was a good
"type," I sent for her.

Miss Kingdon told me afterward that Minnie came
tearing into her dressing-room all excitement and said
she was "about to become an actress." She grabbed
Miss Kingdon 's grease-paint, rouge, toilet articles, and
all, and began to make up in hysterical joy. When this
was accomplished, she threw her arm round her fairy
god-mother's neck and told her how sorry she was to
leave her service ; but her prayer had been answered and

"MOTHBB, MAY- I GO IN THE FILMS?" 267

she must go. So Minnie plunged into the "drayma," as
the culture-club ladies call it.

That day the little Bohemian girl's dream of many
years had come true. She had reached the heights,
achieved the Ball of Gold ; but alas ! it was clay. Sore of
feet and tired of body and soul, she returned to her
dressing-room and threw herself down to cry. All day
long she had rushed through the streets of Paris without
lunch or rest ; she had been struck by pasteboard rocks,
turned her ankle on the rough cobbles, and was finally
thrown into the moat, where she nearly froze. It was
enough to puncture the enthusiasm of even a stronger
girl than Minnie.

That night she timidly opened the door of Miss King-
don's bungalow and said: "I 've come back, Miss Kin-
dum. I don't want to be the movie queen. I tink I
rather be queen of your kitchen." If you ask me, I
believe her renunciation of the dough was as intelligent
as her achievement of her cake.

It would be a good thing if all film-mad girls in the
country could be put through one of these rough scenes.
It is downright physical labor and suffering for the
extras, and often for the principals. When, in this pic-
ture, they stormed the Bastille, droves of women were
thrown into that moat, full of water — "Piped straight
from Greenland," as one of them said. They fought and
struggled for more than an hour while they made the
big scene and innumerable close-ups, and after it was
over I could see the girls huddled together in groups,
shivering as though they had the ague.

Despite my warning, many of them had come without
any change of underclothing and had to go home wet to

268 FILM FOLK

the skin. Outside of the many accidents that the studio
had to look after, I suppose there were over fifty-
eases of grippe, developed as a consequence of that
scene.

NO HEART FOR ROUGH STUFF

Among the men, daredevils — professional, high-priced
thrillers — do all the dangerous stuff, even doubling for
women in most eases where the latter are supposed to
take risks. But we have one girl of twenty-six who wiU
tackle anything a daredevil will do, and a few besides.
It was she who led the mob in the attack on the Bastille
and it was to her courage and utter recklessness that the
success of the picture was largely due.

There is a curious psychologic difference in the atti-
tudes of the men and women toward the pictures,
especially in the dangerous stuff. A down-and-out man
will, of course, often take a desperate chance; but, as a
rule, the men will rough it up only when they are
promised a large return. On the other hand, women
think only of the glory of their work, and will do their
best just to get a good picture.

Some time ago we were making a picture of the Mont
Pelee disaster; and one of the scenes, staged at Long
Beach, showed the inhabitants of Martinique runniag
and jumping off the end of a pier that extended far out
into the ocean. To one standing on the end it seemed as
if the turbulent sea was miles below. A great many men
and women had gone over and were picked up by waiting
boats, and the scene was to fade out on one last girl
runniag down the pier, with all her bundles, throwing
them into the water, and then, turning round to register

"MOTHER, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 269

horror at the volcano, she was to utter a scream and
jump in.

The girl had done splendidly at the studio, but this
was the first time her nerve had been tested. All went
well until she was about to jump, and then she became
frightened and refused to go. The director peevishly
ordered the action over again, and a second time the girl
got as far as the edge, where she stopped and began to
cry, "Oh, I can't do it! I can't do it!" The director
gave me the high sign ; so I walked the girl up the pier,
where I had a little talk with her.

"How far do you expect to go in the pictures, dear?"
I said. "For if you haven't the nerve for this job,
you '11 have mighty little to do. Even if you can't swim,
we are not going to let you drown ! Be a sport and show
these men that you are no cry-baby ! It 's a swell part ;
and, just as you jump, think how corking it will look on
the screen."

It was this latter suggestion that brought the light into
her eyes ; and as she defiantly gathered up her bundles, I
patted her on the back and kissed her.

Down the pier she went the third time and, reaching
the edge, turned to register the horror she actually felt,
hesitated a minute, and then jumped.

The poor child was so frightened that her take-off was
bad; and, landing flat on the water, she tore a terrible
hole in the ocean. She was stunned, but not hurt. How-
ever, she wouldn't do the scene again for a thousand
dollars.

There is a girl whose limitations will confine her work
to "soup and fish." She is a swell dresser, but she
has n't the heart for the rough stuff.

270 FILM FOLK

The pathetic part of this game is the number of women
who will sign up for anything, just to have work. They
will lie outrageously, saying that they can ride, swim, or
drive racing-cars ; and then risk their foolish necks try-
ing to make good with the directors.

It would perhaps have been more entertaining to have
told only the lighter side of this life; but it would not
have been fair. Such a glamour has been thrown about
it by enthusiastic writers who have seen only the high
spots, that many hopeful girls have been misled into
believing it is their one chance to fulfill the dreams of
romance, joy, and adventure which their lives have
missed, yet craved so eagerly.

If I have been stressing the pathos and tragedy too
much, it is because those are the aspects of the extra
girls' lives that confront her oftenest. There is, of
course, a happier side; but it is largely composed of
anticipations and hopes, most of which are never real-
ized. The one moment of utter sublimity comes when,
after weeks and weeks of hard work and delicious antici-
pation, they go to a first run and see themselves upon
the screen.

There is no doubt in my mind that the pictures mean
more to women than to men. Most extra men, as I have
said, care only for their pay ; and I know many of them
who rarely go to see the results of their work. There
is one cowboy at the studio who boasts that he has never
seen himself in the pictures, and doesn't want to.

The premier performance of a great ten- or twelve-reel
feature picture in the center of filmdom is one of the
most unique events in the dramatic life of the country.
In legitimate drama it is, of course, impossible to see the

"MOTHER, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 271

performers at once upon the stage and in the audience.
Neither is it possible on first nights to have aU the rival
actors in attendance. "When we have a first run every
member of the cast, down to the six-hundredth extra —
stuges, carpenters, costumers, scenario writers, camera
men; in fact, everybody who has had any hand in the
building of the picture — is there with bells. Besides
these, come the directors, leads, and publicity men of the
many rival companies, with only an occasional outsider
who manages to squeeze in. It is one grand family
party, different in its composition and psychology from
any other in the world.

WHAT HAPPENED TO POOR SADIE

Downstairs, ia the dollar seats, it is all "soup and
fish." The men are irresistibly arrayed in evening
clothes, right down to white gloves and the personal idio-
syncracies affected by most actors ; while the women are
dressed within an inch of their snappy lives — ^which one
must admit is very stingy dressing. The sartorial gor-
geousness gives a brilliancy to the audience that even the
grandest opera could not call forth. The film celebrities
are there ; everybody knows everybody, and they bow and
chatter and wave friendly recognition as though they
were at some private garden-party.

In the gallery and the balcony are the extras and lesser
members of the cast, come to see themselves perform, and
to applaud or knock the work of the others.

It is not a good time to determine artistic merits of
the picture, for the interest of this audience is essen-
tially egoistical. Thunderous applause greets the initial
appearance of each and every member of the cast as he

272 FILM FOLK

arrives upon the screen. The favorites, of course, get
the larger share ; but even an inconspicuous extra often
has enough friends to bring forth quite a hand when he
comes on, announcing the waiting carriage. Most of the
leads have seen the picture before, projected in the cut-
ting room ; but for the extras this is the first time they
have had a chance to observe how their work has reg-
istered.

Little squeals of delight from scattered groups an-
nounce the recognition of someone.

"Oh, there I am, Madge — in the short skirt, just be-
hind Wallie Reid. Is n't Wallie grand? The other day-
he says to me, 'Rosie,' he says, 'you look swell to-day,
and I want you to work well downstage.' And I

says " "Yea, Bill," pipes up a friend of William's,

a few seats back. "You did that bit swell, kid!" chirps
a camera kid, proud of the cutie by his side. "Say,
where do they get this Blanche Sweet stuff? You 've
got her beat four ways from the ace. When I get to

directin' I '11 show these " "That 's me! That 's

me!" ungrammatically vouchsafes a big "arm and ham-
mer" dame to her lady friend. "That 's number six
grease-paint I'm usin'. Doesn't it give me a swell
skiQ? Say, wait until you see me 'iris in' now on the
third reel ! Holy cat ! What 's happened ? If that fool
director has n't cut out my best stuff ! Wait till I "

One girl who has worked three weeks in the picture
brings her whole family to witness her dramatic triumph.
They wait and wait, only mildly interested in most of the
picture, but with the liveliest expectations for Sadie's
debut. At last she clutches her mother's arm and
squeals : ' ' Oh, there I am ! There I am ! " But, before

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"MOTHER, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 273

the family have been able to sort her out of the wild mob,
Sadie is gone, never to appear again. One hundred
thousand feet of film were shot, and then cut to ten thou-
sand; and alas! poor Sadie was mostly in the ninety
thousand.

But Sadie's will not be the only disappointment in
the gallery this evening — or in the orchestra, for that
matter. The cutting room of a studio is the slaughter-
house of vain ambition. No more cruel torture to highly
sensitive people was ever invented than the cutting of
film. To have the work and hopes of weeks assassinated
by a heartless director! To sacrifice nine-tenths of one's
work — and it 's always "the best" — ^just so "the leads
get all the footage," is a tragedy that only the film artist
is called upon to suffer.

THE GIEL WHO WENT BACK

Technical things that no unsophisticated audience
would ever notice also come in for applause. For in-
stance, the leading man lights his pipe from a candle, and
as he does so, the illumination upon his face glows up and
down with each draw that he pulls. Wild clapping for
the camera man! For this is a new stunt!

During the intermission the audience flocks out into
the lobbies to see one another and, better still, to be seen.
The director and the leads hold veritable receptions;
rival actors strut about, giving the extra people a treat
and the performing leads a pain ; ingenues, vamps, and
character men stand round in attitudes and little groups,
discussing the play ; and the extra people whisper their
recognitions in more or less awesome admiration.

"There she is, Sid! Say, she's got a face like a

274 FILM FOLK

prune; but she certainly does photograph swell."
"What do you think of the show, Bill?" "Great!
Great! I think it beats The Kinsman." "Well, wait
till you see the second half. I 'm in that!"

When the great drama finally dissolves out on some
sublime allegory, there are loud cries for the director.
With a "few well-chosen" — and rehearsed — words, the
real hero of it all bashfully and with immodest modesty
conveys his "heartmost felt," after which the happy
mummers beat it out to their inconspicuous pink and
lavender twin sixes and twos. Then to the chocolate
shops, cafes, and beaches, or maybe — ^home.

Notwithstanding the fact that every woman has at
some time in her life longed to play Juliet, and that the
younger generation all aspire to vamp or purr in the pic-
tures, yet we occasionally find one to whom the vanities
and excitements of this profession make no appeal.

A few years ago a great advertising campaign was car-
ried on in order to find the most beautiful girl in Amer-
ica. The winner was to be given a leading role with a
well-known company.

A young lady working as a stenographer in a large
Eastern city won the great prize; and, with all the trum-
pets and bands playing, she was brought to Los Angeles.

She remained just one week, and in that time decided
that she didn't have a moving-picture soul. The last
we heard of the strange young woman, she had gone back
to her stenography.

I have her picture in my office; and the other day,
while I sat looking into her beautiful and intelligent face,
I was wishing that her thirty million American sisters
had her good sense. A rap on my window caused me to

"MOTHER, MAY I GO IN THE FILMS?" 275

look up ; and there stood a young mother, with a baby in
her arms and a little boy hugging her skirts.

* ' Oh, ' ' she said, " I 'm so glad to get here ! I 've come
all the way from Kansas City. I 've left my husband.
. . . Yes; he 's a fine fellow, but he doesn't understand.
A psychic seeress told me I had a moving-picture soul ;
and I "

"Wait just a minute !" I interrupted, as I reached for
the telephone. "Say, Clara, connect me with the City
Mother's office. ... Is that you. Miss Kingdon? . . .
Well, can you run up here for a minute ? . . . No — ^yes ;
I have a beautiful package of nuts for you !"

VII

THE BELL-RINGERS

(THE PUBLICITY MAN ATTEMPTS THE TRUTH)

IF, as the philosopher says, Truth lies at the bottom
of a well, she may stay there, for all of me. I prefer
to do my lying above-ground. Time was when I was
quite under the influence of the bright and fascinating
lady; but that was when I was in college— and before I
met Art. My professor in journalism, who years agone
had owned a truthful and unsuccessful newspaper, so
stirred my admiration for Truth that, one dream-day
in June, I swore to love, honor, and obey her until death
us did part. All during Commencement Week she and
I sat on the banks of the raging Huron and discussed the
future. Hand in hand, we were to go forth from our
Alma Mater, shedding light into the darkness of the
outer world, and charging so much a kilowatt column for
the light. Truth agreed to furnish the torch, if I 'd
come across with the oil and gasoline.

My bride selected the Los Angeles Trumpet as a fitting
post for my beautiful white soul, because that paper,
above all others, addressed itself most strongly to
verity. Eight above the editorial column it boldly and
grandly proclaimed: "The truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth!" As we detrained at the Set-

276

THE BELL-RINGBKS 277

ting Sun, Truth squeezed my hand and said: "Harry,
we are going to be very happy and congenial on the
Trumpet." "Women are so hopeful!

The stout, bald city-editor smiled eerily upon my
enthusiasm for his motto, and set me to work at fifteen
dollars a week. Thinking that I should find more truth
at the beaches than in the more dressed-up walks of life,
I went down there in search of my first story, and got
a very good one. It was about a little, homely mani-
curist who had stepped on a stingaree; and the weird
thing had pierced her foot right through. Her shrieks
caused a tremendous excitement; but she was finally
got off to the hospital. It was a good tale and I told it
truthfully. "When the city-editor read my copy, he
shook his head sadly.

"I thought so!" he said. "Sit down, lad, and listen
to your Uncle Dud. Our first loves are romantic, but
not always wise. The type of lady you have picked is
popular with scientists and philosophers ; but she 's a
little too cold and solemn for the newspaper fellows.
If you wish to be happy in this business, you 'd better
hook up with Art. At any rate, I want to introduce you
to a different kind of beauty."

WHEN TRUTH JUMPED INTO THE WELL

I blush to say that I fell for Art's charms immediately.
She was so much more vivacious and happy than my col-
lege widow.

"Harry," said she, when we were alone, "your story
is true, but very dull — and dullness is the unpardonable
sin of journalism. Brighten up your tale with some
entertainment. Art is eaimed joy; make it artistic.

278 FILM FOLK

Above all, have your manicurist 'a beautiful moving-
picture actress, ' doing a bathing story for the Clingstone
Comedy Company. Right away you have touched the
pulse of universal interest. The stingaree stuff is good ;
but while the bathing beauty is thus impaled, have an
octopus or other horrific fish biting her on the knee.

"Finally let her be rescued by an Eastern tennis star.
Fade out with the rumor that the tennis chap is spend-
ing all his afternoons at the Good Samaritan Hospital.
The essential truth of your story is still there; but, by
adding a touch of art, you have made the girl deliriously
happy; your readers love romance and the movies, so
they are happy ; bright entertaining stories sell the paper
— that makes the editors happy ; you write the stories and
they give you a raise, and that makes you happy ! Now
sit down and see how much happiness you can pound out
of that typewriter."

When the city-editor read my rewritten story he
clapped his hands for joy and raised my salary to
twenty dollars a week. Next day the manicure-girl
limped into the ofSce and bought fifty copies. Every-
body was happy except Truth, but she is so darned
literal, uncompromising, and utterly humorless ! When
she read that snappy tale she jumped out of the window
and beat it up the street as tight as she could. A fellow
coming in from Tripieo said he saw her do a high dive
into a well out near Gas Station Twenty-three. Far
be it from me to disturb her in those poUiwoggly depths !
I am happier with Art, anyway.

Art knew. The movie people were — journalistically
— the most popular folk in town ; so I began to hang my
stories on them. All the dips and porch-climbers, under

THE BELL-RINGBKS 279

my inspirational touch, became moving-picture actors
and film favorites ; and when a grand old badger worked
her classic game on a leading merchant, I generously
gave the lady a good character part in a local company.
That was the story which landed me in the moving-
pictures. The Climax, when it offered me twice the
salary the paper was paying, frankly stated that it
wished to use my talents inside the industry, rather than
outside. And Truth used to tell me that Art didn't
pay!

For four years now I have been bell-ringing for this
hectic and hilarious picture world, and I have never
regretted my second choice. The carnival lives of the
make-believers are iafinitely more interesting than the
bra^ien intimacies of publicans and politicians. To be
the poet laureate to a lot of silly actors may not seem
like a very high artistic expression; yet we make thou-
sands of people happy — and that is a holy mission in
this dour old world. Then there are some of us who
would celebrate the lives of a corral full of nut farm-
ers for the wages we get, or expect to get.

The first shock I received when I became minstrel for
the movie mummers was to learn that there was a very
serious, businesslike side to the publicity department.
My idea of a press agent had been gleaned from the
old-fashioned advance man, who, going out ahead of a
show, would drop in on the Ann Arbor Argus, buy the
bunch a round of drinks, and then unload his rainbow
fiction. He was a picturesque figure in his gay shirt,
litter of lodge buttons, and exaggerated cordiality; but
alas! he has gone the way of all our granddads' in-
efiiciencies; he has been superseded by system.

280 FILM FOLK

The film publicity man of to-day sits in an austere
suite of offices in New York, completely surrounded by
braias, adding machines, and photo-mailers, conducting
his business by long-distance telephone and special de-
livery. He wears horn spectacles, smokes too many
cigarettes, and is as opinionated as an almanac — ^his
estimate of the exhibitor being the most inflammable.

These New York ferrets are more or less interested,
at least academically, in truth and the mechanical dis-
tribution of publicity; so their work is not nearly so
exciting as reporting from the studios. They are the
psychologists and strategists who plan the great cam-
paigns of advertising that call attention to our wares.

A publicity campaign undertaken by these men in
behalf of a great historical feature play is an amazingly
complex affair. The trained writers prepare a great
mass of copy from the stuff we send in, which they whip
into shape for the Press Book. This unique bibelot
contains a series of articles, beginning with strongly
adjectived announcements of the coming attraction, to
be used for a week or so in advance, followed by inter-
views with the stars, stories of the special music, histor-
ical accuracy of the plot, human interest, and quoted
opinions of the film. Short two, three, and four para-
graph reading-notices are included for further ammuni-
tion.

SHEEZA BABE IN SWEET SIN

An enormous number of photographs accompany this
dope. And rotogravures for lobby displays must be
made ; lithographers and show-card printers set to work ;
and sample copy is set up for every possible purpose,

THE BELL-RINGERS 281

from programs and hand-bills to seven-column news-
paper displays. Matrices of the latter are cast to save
the repeated cost of expensive type-settiag and the ship-
ping of half-tone cuts. While all this constructive work
is being done by part of the staff, others are arranging,
districting, and cataloguing newspaper lists of cities of
particular populations and different sizes, and laying out
a complete plan for each division of the work.

When everything is printed, contracts are signed, the
time-table is filled, and the ball is set to rolling; after
which the work becomes largely automatic. The result
of a carefully planned, systematic campaign of publicity
is justified by the fact that, in every city where the pic-
ture appears, the copy sent out is strictly adhered to;
and for very good reasons — it saves the exhibitor the
expense of an ad writer and is very much better than
any local reporter could do it. Thus has come into the
film industry, for the first time, the principle of na-
tional advertising.

Day after day the fans read in their favorite papers
sympathetic and flattering accounts of how "Sheeza
Bare is packing the Picturetorium by her vampings in
Sweet Sin, the Jazz Company's great five-reel master-
piece." We must, under all circumstancjes, get the
names of our star, story, and studio into everything we
write, if it is only a paragraph. And if one of these
fans is observant, he will wonder how Jimmie Geegan,
the film reporter on the Evening Wheeze, could possibly
write such bully stuff and ring in so many charming
changes in the same boost every night for two weeks.
Of course James couldn't. Nobody but a high-priced,
high-browed literary highbinder could sustain such high-

282 FILM FOLK

quality enthusiasm for Sheeza so long as that. The
fine literary flavor of your daily critiques is due entirely
to the fact that they were written by a fellow wearing
horn spectacles in New York.

So much for the newspapers. The New York office
must also supply the trade magazines with stories, pic-
tures, and advertising; it may plan window displays,
street parades, or photographic exhibits for the public
schools, but it reaches the real artistic heights with its
stunts. One of the most effective of these ever put over
in New York carried not one mark of advertising. For
a week preceding the release of a great historical film two
girls in shining armor, riding white chargers, paraded
the streets. Nothing could have been more conspicuous
than the metallic and colorful brilliancy of these white-
mounted figures as they majestically moved down Broad-
way, while the black traffic of the metropolis swept by
them in both directions. The character part was in-
stantly recognized without explanatory labels.

One press genius, whose talents had been developed
in the service of some circus, arranged a "triumphal
return" from California of a young movie queen, which
was so well planned and planted that, when the pretty
child set forth, her train was met by thousands ; and by
the time it reached Chicago her ovation had become a
triumph, ending in a great public reception by the uni-
versity, and having the day named in her honor.

Another good stunt was planted when a press fellow
induced two thousand members of an actors' club to
parade the streets in costume, on their way to witness
the debut in the films of one of their members.

Besides the spectacular advertising of the feature

THE BELL-KINGEES 283

pictures, there must be got out a regular weekly grind
concemiag the ordinary comic and short dramatic re-
leases. This is in the form of a weekly bulletin con-
taining personality stories, jokes, and all sorts of guff,
which the papers are urged to quote as freely as their
consciences — or our advertising — will permit. This
sprightly sheet is enlivened with wonderful half-tone
cuts of our trained animals, which may be had upon
application.

A SPONTANEOUS OUTBURST

Certain newspapers have an idea that printed news
must necessarily be dead; so for them we get out the
same dope in the form of mimeograph letters, and,
though the postage is very much higher, the news looks
fresh and the alert editor uses it.

By a thorough system of card-cataloguing the kind of
stuff used by each editor, we soon learn the shape of
his head; and we shoot copy appropriate to each one's
particular taste.

In looking over the cards we learn, for instance, that
the Toledo Buzzer likes "bathing-girl pictures and per-
sonal gossip"; the New Orleans Oracle asks for "funny
stills"; the Little Rock Lamplighter prefers "action
pictures of pretty girls"; the sporting editors like
"shooting stars" or "fisher-maidens"; the women's
magazines want "domestic happiness" and will grab
pictures of the movie queen baking beans or doing the
herringbone stitch.

One editor on our list is mushy over children, and
another will take "anything with a dog in it"; and —
oh, oh, oh I — ^there are eight papers in this country that

284 FILM FOLK

have unblushingly — I might say insultingly — asked us
for risque pictures ! If I told the names of those papers,
their readers would probably all stop taking them.
Sometimes we can land on the sporting pages of the big
papers by framing a good action-picture of our leading
man putting on the gloves with the momentary champ,
or going to the mat with a Terrible Turk. '

To plant a picture of a he-pet is one of the triumphs
of publicity. Those papers which have not an absolute
rule against men's pictures are at least so much more
cordial to the female fagade that it is easier to shoot over
a pretty "still" of Mamie Capers, who plays the part
of the maid, than it is to ring in the godlike beauty of
Jackson X. Kerriman.

Nowhere in the world is the pretty girl worshiped as
she is in America. I used to think the magazines wit-
less because they were everlastingly plastering their
covers with chocolate-creamy young ladies. One of them,
which for twenty years has had scarcely anything but
"kissy covers," is constantly taunting us for our clinch-
ing fade-outs ! But I have come to the conclusion that art
editors know quite well the national weakness. We are
utterly unable to satisfy the demand for pretty-girl pic-
tures. Oh, for some new poses! And I am grieved
to say that the demand for bathing girls is quite de-
pressing.

"When we are uncertain of an editor's taste we send
him both kinds, and then observe which he uses. If he
plays up the domestic-happiness picture, we waste no
more "bathies" on that paper.

Another regular function of the publicity man is to
keep his bosses informed about the affairs of other

THE BELL-RINGERS 285

companies and the photo-dramatic possibilities of sig-
nificant, everyday occurrences. Each morning the gen-
eral manager finds on his desk a statement that the
Eureka has signed Miss So-and-so ; that there have been
food riots in Battle Creek ; a rush for citizenship papers ;
and what not. These latter items may suggest timely
themes for feature pictures.

Besides the routine of office work, the staff often has
definite, concrete problems to meet. At the premier
performance of a great photo-drama in Boston, the
lead — who was also a famous opera singer — ^was sitting
in a box. At the height of the evening's enthusiasm
she leaned a little forward and was recognized, receiv-
ing a tremendous ovation for her success in the film play.
Suddenly the orchestra struck up the Star-Spangled
Banner; and, as she stood up and sang the first two
stanzas, the audience broke out into the wildest kind of
patriotic demonstration.

This event was unique only because many people had
been led to believe, from certain current stories, that
this otherwise popular American was an anti-patriot.
If the story went on, the result would soon bring ruin
to the boxoffiee, so its effective counteraction was put
squarely up to the publicity department. Simple de-
nials would not do; advertising signed statements are
expensive and ineffective ; so the only thing that seemed
adequate was to stage some spontaneous episode that
would prove the girl's patriotism aaid be dramatic
enough to gain wide publicity.

Knowing that this actress would be a party to no
frame-up, the p. m. had to frame one on her. He banked
all his hopes on the psychology of a moment. Arrang-

286 FILM FOLK

ing for some flowers, which, when sent to her box, would
disclose the star's presence, he instructed the orchestra
to strike up the national anthem as she received them;
and he then hoped that the enthusiasm of the moment
would sweep the singer to her feet, and she could thus
publicly refute the slander of her un- Americanism. He
won splendidly; the newspapers flashed the dramatic
episode all over the country, with the result that the^
lady is completely rehabilitated in the estimation of
those countrymen of hers who had been poisoned by
the first story.

IN THE CITY OF HOPE

The activities I have thus far described emerge from
the main editorial office, in New York. The horn spec-
tacles there have a feeling of devilish importance be-
cause they edit the stuff we reporters send in, but to
me they are like a lot of little old ingrowing jewelers
sitting in stuffy offices, polishing and setting the dramatic
and personal pearls that we daring and adventurous
divers bring up out of the filmy depths. There is a
lot more fun and excitement in catching tuna than in
canning it.

One experiences a curious kind of exhilaration in this
kaleidoscopic world of pretty girls, wild animals, and
handsome he-dolls. Life is full of movement and color ;
and though the antics of the participants may seem
somewhat superficial, yet we find here all the lights and
shades of human loves and tragedies. The vainest
wretch who hogs the camera has for four years been
paying a doubtful debt of honor of his father; many

THE BELL-EINGBRS 287

of the little girls are not nearly so bad as they are
painted; and even my terrifying boss has a charming
weakness for giving jobs to old men and cripples.

But the real joy of association on the lot lies in the
hope that bums in the heart of every member of our
miniature city. In many of our greatest institutions
employees often show a gray monotony of interest, or a
resigned hopelessness ; but out here ! The ingenue hopes
for a lead; the extra girl looks forward to a "bit"; the
boss dreams of the capture of another star or the newest
thing in mergers; the grips and stuges are writing
scenarios ; and the publicity man looks hopefully toward
a boost in his check on the first.

True, we also have a certain routine in our work ; but
it necessitates no such cloistered life as that of the edi-
torial "homed toads" of the eastern office. I make the
rounds of each department twice daily, looking for dope ;
and I do not search in vain. There is so much, in fact,
that my job consists in sorting out the best and getting
it in such shape that the h. t.'s in New York will think
it worthy a place in dramatic literature.

And here is where my artistry comes in. Our solemn
bosses — with their tongues in their cheeks — are con-
stantly hollering for "unvarnished tales"; but, of
course, we do not take them so seriously as they sound.
If we did n't apply a little shellac to some of our stories,
it would be mighty embarrassing to a lot of people — ^not
excluding the boss himself. What they really mean is
that we must not be too raw and make our stories up
out of whole cloth — ^unless our day has been particularly
dull. We truly do not need to invent much, for we

288 FILM FOLK

have such a colorful bag of ragged truths to pick from
that a little artistic trimming and embroidery are all
they need.

Perhaps I have been too hard on Truth; she does
not appear nearly so dull in Movie Land as she does
outside. I really get a lot of help from her; and I am
not such a bigot that I won't admit it.

It is curious that a number of true tales a fellow
may send in are not believed. This is particularly
so in the case of the trick dogs and precocious children.
There is a vacuous disinterest shown in this type of
story; but let me cut into the delicious privacy of some
film favorite's life, and you can knock the readers' eyes
off with a stick. Human interest in one's neighbor —
or one's neighbor's wife — is strong enough; but if that
neighbor happens to be an actress, the interest shown
is shocking. The greatest appetite is for stories of the
lady's amours, and what she does with her money. So,
if I insist that Sheeza, the vamp., spends six dollars a
day buying chili sauce, which furnishes the fuel for her
warmest scenes, or that Jack Van Arsdale — ^who has
been five times happily married — is a lonesome bachelor,
living with his "sister" on an orange ranch adjoining
the studio, what of it?

We have three kinds of personality stories, catalogued
under the heads: Philosophy, Gift, and Anecdote.

The philosophic opinions of movie actors on love
and marriage are often too quaint to print, and we
must revise them for publication. However, occasion-
ally one of them has a near-intelligent estimate of his
"art" that will get by — ^with help. But when Bessie

THE BELL-KINGERS 289

Plopit is quoted as uttering profound platitudes anent
the part she is playing, you may be sure the dope was
provided by a recondite publicity man. Philosophy
stories are not particularly exciting and are rather hard
Jo put over.

The second classification is the gift story. "The
great film feature, Cheops' Daughter^ was lately pro-
jected, by royal command, before the Khedive of Egypt ;
and so entranced was His Highness with the splendid
work of Dot Dalrymple that he sent the famous Jazz
favorite the largest obelisk on the Nile"; or, "When
Miss "Willie Work arrived from the East she was de-
lighted to find that the Eureka had presented her with
a beautiful bungalow, furnished down to silver safety-
pins and a Chinese cook. A canary-colored runabout,
with her name modestly stenciled on the doors, awaited
her at the station." The gift stories go pretty well,
but our generous wits are nearly exhausted. Every-
thuig from trained pogsnoggles to the keys of the beach
cities has been laid at the fair young feet of our popular
queens. A cemetery lot has not been thought of; but
perhaps such a gift would be misunderstood.

THE GIFT OF THE SULTAN OP GUMBO

An Encyclopedia of Useful Knowledge certainly is
useful in our office. I was reading the other day about
parasols. Unpromising press stuff, you say? Not
"a-tall!" I decided that news should go forth to the
enhungered fans that Bessie Plopit possessed the larg-
est collection of parasols in the world. What, thought
I, is there to prevent the Sultan of Gumbo from sending

290 FILM FOLK

his film favorite — ah, her fame is universal! — a very
rare parasol made from the skins of the bongo? Noth-
ing — but the severe illness of Art.

Silly stories? Perhaps; but you seem to like them.
I enjoy some of them myself. Anyway, they are fun
to write. If you are bound and determined to hear
stories of your colorless little pets, it is up to us to
entertain you.

And this reminds me that, though most of our dolls
are dead ones from the publicity point of view, others
are perfect gold mines. "We have one leading lady
whose life is about as colorful as that of a minister's
wife; yet she has an insatiable appetite for press no-
tices. But the poor creature never does a blessed thing ;
and yet will not allow us to furnish stories for her. I
could pass over her objections to bathing stuff, if she
would only walk barefoot through the begonias for
her complexion, or take midnight baths on her secluded
roof. But what is a poor p. m. to do with a woman
who keeps a nursemaid for her child, loves her husband,
and would get a headache if an idea or opinion ever
crept into her silly little bean?

These negative nobodies are always pestering us be-
cause we are "favoring" their rivals with more pub-
licity than is awarded to them. I have two comebacks
when they become too churlish: "Why, Marie, I've
sent in no end of dope about you; but those darned
horned-toads in New York must have canned it." Oh,
wicked and useful h. t.'s! Or, "How do you know
how much publicity you 've had ? If you 'd loosen up
and subscribe to a clipping-bureau you 'd find out. ' '

In the case of the rip-snortin' he-actor who comes

THE BELL-RINGERS 291

gunning for me because he thinks his song has gone un-
sung, I wait until he has blown up ; and then I say, "Bill,
I saw you in the Convict's Cutie, down at the Badley
last night, and your work was simply great!" — and
so on. As I pour on the sirup, a beatific smile appears
where a moment before a storm raged ; and I leave the
dear fellow purring in the sunshine, happy as a bubble.

THE CAREER OF MARGUERITE MARIGOLD

In the good old days we had some dreadful lemons
given us to promote. The boss, or director, would take
up some chicken-minded, pretty pinhead and make her
a lead ; then he would push it squarely up to the pub-
licity man to put her over — second-class brains wasted on
fourth-class ability! Efficiency — ^not! We shot a good
many beautiful rockets up in the air like this ; but most
of them came down — naturally — like sticks. Only a
few, after their first big boost, floated off into stardom ;
and those few had potential talents when they bargained
for their start.

When a girl becomes enormously famous in the pic-
tures, and brings a great fortune to her boss, his business
rivals are on the alert in search for a counterpart type,
hoping thus to cut in on the tremendous earnings of the
favorite.

In a New York studio a director one day noticed
among the extra girls, in a scene he was shooting, a
face that caused him to drop everything, rush into the
office, grab the boss by the sleeve and stammer "Hen,
I 've got a Clarkford out here ! For the love of Mike,
come out and see her!" And sure enough, when the
boss beheld the sweet young face he figuratively went

292 FILM FOLK

right over backward, for he saw behind it many men
putting hoops on barrels and barrels of money.

Next, to capitalize that face. The whole machinery
of the studio would be turned to that purpose. If
money and help could make a star, the proper nebulae
were forming. Lulu Gatz and her mother, Mrs. Gatz,
window-washer at the Elite, suddenly found themselves
transplanted from the gas-tanks to an apartment facing
Kiverside Drive. The coming star was provided with
a maid, a school-teacher, and a dancing-master; the best
director on the lot was turned loose to develop her
teehnic; and after two months of the hardest kind of
work, in which the youngster did exceptionally well, she
was handed over to the publicity department.

First of all, "Lulu Gatz" would never do; so, by
looking through the rich nomenclature of our sleep-
ing-cars and a few pretty valentines, the p. m. decided
that Lulu should go before the world under the floral
nom de fillum Marguerite Marigold. "How I became
a film star" always gets over; and in the case of Mar-
guerite it was especially exciting, for did she not step
right out of a home of wealth and culture into star-
dom?

But how? "Well, the story went out that Director
Stanley Barryworth was up in Boston on location, and
every morning for several days he noticed an exquisite
child, with her armful of books, crossing the Common.
Seeing the amazing picture possibilities in the young-
ster, he followed her to school one day — ^whieh was, of
course, against the rule ; and he learned from her teacher
that she belonged to one of the Backest Bay families in
Boston. To break through the aristocratic objections

THE BELL-RINGERS 293

of the proud parents was a great tribute to the high
standing of the Filmart Studio. Oh, the moral and
spiritual safeguards included in that contract — a story
in itseK!

And the joke of it is that Lulu Gatz arrived, for she
had fair ability and the best chance ever given a girl.
And this was great good fortune for the Filmart, be-
cause this experiment has not always ended so happily.
Many a fortune has been spent trying to capitalize a
pretty face; but if there is nothing behind the face,
good night, bank!

Some people have an instinct for publicity. Extra
girls occasionally are crackajacks, though they rarely
film up to their advertising; and we use them to boost
the studio, or else we hang their stories on the less
picturesque leads. "We had one girl, however, of na-
tional prominence as a movie queen, who had never ap-
peared in a picture except as atmosphere or ia small
parts, but who, by perseverance and intelligent hard
work, made good on her fame.

Miss Kingdon had ridden in aeroplanes, raced fhe
world's famous drivers round the Santa Monica track,
and, as a last sensation, had motored alone across the
continent as the Filmart Girl. Speaking in the movie
theaters en route, she had become so well known that
the studio found it embarrassing to answer requests
from her admirers as to when and where they could
see her pictures. So it was up to the Filmart Studio
to show the girl on the screen ; and she went to the bat
with a good director and literally learned how to act.
"With her native wit, and the help and encouragement
of everybody on the lot, she soon rose to star propor-

294 FILM FOLK

tions, and we were able to send her forth on the silver
screen without disappointment to her admirers.

The appointment of Miss Kingdon as city mother in
Los Angeles was originally a publicity stunt; but the
joke was on us, for the young lady took her respon-
sibilities seriously and worked so effectively that she
has become a most useful member of the company and
the community.

Some of our stars, feeling that they may be neglected
in studio publicity, employ personal press agents, who
devote their exclusive time to chanting their pets to
fame. These writers usually do feature stuff and try
hard for the magazines. One of them will laureate his
vampire's hypnotic eyes, while another vsdll prove by
half-tone and diagram that his heroine is architectur-
ally identical with the Venus of Milo. Stories on the
dietary eccentricities of some ample queen, or the phys-
ical culture of our he-god, appear from time to time, to
remind us that these famous filmers are not unmindful
of the power of money in publicity. It may be inter-
esting to know that the owners of dogs are quite as
hungry for press notices as the most ambitious charac-
ter actors.

THE SERMONS OP BILL JONES

There is one poor chap in Los Angeles whose fame
is destined never to spread much beyond the spoken
word. In his biggest parts his name does not even
appear on the program! As he has specialized on reli-
gious characterization, his roles include everything from
the saints to the deities; and, as the central figure in
most of the great allegories, he has become familiar to all

THE BELL-EINGERS 295

the fans in the country; yet not half a dozen of them
know his identity. It has taken the fellow years to
cultivate the natural make-up for these majestic parts;
but even the most agnostic would be a bit shocked to
see the name of a deity followed by Bill Jones on the
program.

"What gets my goat," Bill whined one day, "is that
if I was a-playin' one of these mush-faced hero parts,
you publikkity guys would be writin' your fool heads
off. But, even if I 'm only doin' a Boodish priest, you
won't mention my name, for fear of offendin' some gol-
darned Turk! Ah, ye make me sick!" And Bill in-
dignantly blew great rings of smoke that rose in in-
congruous halos over his stained-glass head.

Freak contracts are good publicity, as these alleged
agreements often contain amazing clauses. One I re-
call demanded that the young ingenue should always
have a chaperon in attendance, live three miles from
the studio, and be in bed every night at nine-thirty.
Another, that of a famous vamp., bore a strict injunc-
tion against the dangerous creature's marrying, dining
with men in cafes, or appearing anywhere in public un-
less heavily veiled. And the joke is that the vamps, are.
particularly anxious that their devotees should believe
they are "really very good" — so much so that they are
constantly seeking domestic-happiness publicity.

The mail-box offers another very fruitful avenue of
publicity and is an indication to the office of the star's
popularity. No? Well, we sometimes get letters our-
selves, and they shed much light on the volumes of mail
that come to and about doubtful stars. "Dear Mr.
McGrath," one read to-day, "I have just received a

296 FILM FOLK

note from Miss Flopit asking me to write and tell the
studio how much I appreciate her work. I regret that
I cannot do so, for I have never seen her, except in
one film; and in that she was pretty poor." We mean
old publicity men get to be uncomfortably suspicious of
lots of boost letters which come to the studio.

THE PET dolls' MAIL

Over at the Climax there is a girl whose mother is a
perfect bear at this letter game. She answers in full
every scratch that comes to daughter, of course signing
her off -spring's name. She files and card-catalogues
all correspondence ; and when Easter or Christmas comes,
every one of her six or seven hundred devotees gets a
card or note of seasonable greetings. Are they glad?
How would you feel if your god or goddess should choose
you from all her admirers to send you a personal mes-
sage? Mother also sees to it that all of daughter's fans
are informed as to where and when Gertie's pictures are
to be released; and the only embarrassment to the
mater is when one of Gert's vicarious correspondents
gets romantic and comes bounding on to Los Angeles to
woo her. It is then that the domestic bean, in the form
of the big he-husband daughter supports, must be spilled.
At that, mother is a genius, and we ought to have her in
our department.

And this reminds me that all film pets must be un-
married. If, perchance, there is a he-and-she episode,
the male end of the sketch is always her "brother."
The number of movie queens who share a home with their
brothers speaks eloquently for the strength of the Ameri-
can family tie.

THE BELL-RINGEES 297

Even when the romantic maiden learns that her hero
is sewed up in a matrimonial bag, that fact does not
always deter her from amorous longings. One charm-
ing miss, who had familiarized herself with the Borgian
means of cyaniding one's side partner into innocuous
desuetude, suggested the pretty poison plan to our prize
doll, and then offered to share with him her fortune,
which, upon inquiry at the bank she quoted, was found
to be certainly very alluring.

A most refreshing personality among those who have
come my way in this world of human vanities is this
same pet doll. Probably the most beautiful male on
the silver screen, he gets more "mash notes" than any
two actors in the country; yet he absolutely refuses to
read one of them. They all come to me, and my stenog-
rapher does her best to answer their inquiries and sign
photographs for him. When I receive a really good
letter, like the one from the cyanide girl, I stand him
in a corner and read it to him; but he just laughs and
lets me keep it.

Most of the photo-players, unless their mail is too
voluminous, prefer answering their own letters ; and one
can't blame them, for the inclosures are often quite
exciting, and include everything from hand-stitched
handkerchiefs and crocheted ties to money. A letter
came to one of our leading men which contained a hun-
dred-dollar bill and a request that he jump on a train
and come at once to his little sweetheart. This chap
has a grim sense of humor, for he keeps all the money
that is sent him and never reciprocates by so much as a
photograph.

Only a few studios furnish photographs for this pur-

298 FILM FOLK

pose ; so one scarcely blames the actors for feeling tight
when one sees the alarming demands made upon them.

There was a fellow at the Mammoth whose contract
stipulated that the studio was to pay all the expense
of his correspondence. On the day of his leaving he
brought into the office two thousand letters to be mailed
to his personal fans. Very thoughtlessly he had failed
to seal three of them, and a naughty stenographer in the
office read one; then she read two. And then she ran
away to find the big boss, whose first indignation at his
clerk's perfidy faded as he, too, read the letters; for in
all three of them the Mammoth was referred to as "a
dump," and the boss was ungallantly labeled "a dub."

Henceforth, if "My dearest June," "Hortense," or
"Clara" wished to view the godlike proportions of her
hero, she must needs look for him under the label of
the hated Climax. The intelligent boss made a two-
thousand-to-three guess that the remainder of the letters
would not be good publicity for the Mammoth ; so I fear
there are now two thousand palpitating little hearts that
wonder what has become of the blessed boy of their
dreams.

So alert have become the collectors of film-favorite
pictures that we now have to be very careful of rubber-
stamp or office-boy signatures. The photograph fans
evidently get together and match John Hancocks; and
if one of them suspects forgery, she will roar like
Niagara.

Since actors are gradually learning that requests for
their photographs do not necessarily mean popularity,
they are beginning to shy — ^unless there is an inclosure.
Thousands of school-girls now collect film favorites quite

THE BELL-KINGERS 299

as impersonally as I used to corral tin tags and cigarette
pictures ; they are just trying to see how many they can
get. So they write by hundreds to the poor, flattered
actor ; and, if weak, he indulges in the expensive pastime
of adding to their collection.

TOU GET PICTURES, MAC GETS KISSES

My pets should get together and match letters. They
would find, to their amazement, that little Maizie, who
was simply "pining away" for Hubert Eawling's pic-
ture, was affected in that identical way by longing for
Spencer Grandon's. In fact, if the truth were known,
sixty-two actors had felt so flattered by Maizie 's devo-
tion that each and every one sent her his best carbon
print — some quite tenderly inscribed — with the result
that Maizie has the biggest collection of movie-pictures
of any girl in Lincoln High.

She is a short sport who won't send in two bits for a
picture of her hero, signed by him, or, better still, by
me. The men are fairer than the women in this. We
have one fellow in NashviUe who, every three months,
sends five dollars for the latest picture of his girl; and
you bet he gets a good one !

Ministers, as a class, are not very worldly; yet even
they have their favorites. Sometimes one will stall
along with spiritual advice ; but sooner or later he comes
right out and asks for her picture. We had one shepherd
in Minneapolis who went mad over our vamp.'s eyes;
£ind his praise was so good that her personal press agent
used it. His alleged Reverence said he would sue unless
the company paid him five hundred dollars for having
furnished such a good story ! We offered him a job.

300 FILM FOLK

I may be shot by a jealous admirer, but, for the sake
of many soft-hearted correspondents, I am going to put
at rest any amorous hopes they may cherish for these
movie girls. Boys, you have n't a chance in the world —
with me on the job. Some of these women may regard
their husbands not unkindly, but really I am "the dear-
est fellow" on the lot. One young thing — probably the
very one you have been mooning about — is so delighted
with any little press notice I take of her that she shame-
lessly rewards me with a kiss for everything I write —
and I have to write quite often. Mrs. McGary, who has
mixed sympathies for her sex, is having me measured for
fly screens. She says: "I '11 be darned if I '11 have
Harry vamped by every jade on the lot simply for do-
ing his duty !" And duty is one of the very best things
I do.

You may be sure I have to be careful not to show any
favoritism. Every one of these people thinks I am
boosting the other. "Do you notice, Madge, that Mr.
McGary has little enough to say about me, the best
character woman in Hollywood? But look at the stuff
he puts over about that kissy kid ! I guess he 's flat-
tered; baldheads always are when the chickens notice
'em. But this pretty doll 11 kiss anything and any-
body, from the camera kid to her husband — so Mae
needn't feel so flattered."

If Benny Bernstein, one of our cut-ups, sees me talk-
ing to Hen Barker, a rival custard-pieist, he comes
snooping over and tells me a little story about himself ;
and if ever I should be seen visiting with a twinkling
star for any length of time, leave it to his or her rival to
see that the tete-a-tete is interrupted.

THE BELL-RINGERS 301

We once tried handling two captive vamps, at the
same time. Never again ! When one was working in a
set, the other would go and sit behind the camera and
"cat" her rival until she completely captured the lady's
goat. After several weeks they both demanded and
were permitted inclosed sets; but, like as not, when the
performing vamp, was working herself up to a point
where she could artistically claw off her sweetheart's
ear, she would look up and behold the green eye of
her rival peering through a hole in the canvas. If you
have ever seen how the vamps, make up their wicked
eyes by painting the sockets a ghastly green, you can
realize how disconcerting it must be to a great artiste
to behold one peering at her from ambush.

Another delicious role of the publicity man is that
of Father Confessor. Our tremendous power over the
destinies of the performers is often associated in their
minds with omniscient wisdom; so the oppressed and
sore of heart come to us for consolation. I advise them
in love and business with equal impartiality, and those
who have followed my suggestions have produced as-
tonishing results.

So that we may ring our bells intelligently, the p. m. is
supposed to know all about his wares. Therefore we keep
on file a secret, signed confession — called the ' ' Obits. ' ' —
of every actor on the lot. In this curious document are
many blanJis, to be filled in with the name, birth, inci-
dents of youth, parents, schooling, positions, theatrical
experience, sports, hobbies, and so on ; but the three ques-
tions that bring out the spice of the confessors' lives are :

7. What was your greatest adventure? — ^not neces-
sarily a love affair.

302 FILM FOLK

9. What are the things in your life of which you
are proud?

16. What is there of further interest about your-
self? Do not be bashful; all of it is useful to this de-
partment and to your welfare.

It is easy to understand why most actors should not
hate themselves; but the things that flatter their pride
are sometimes baffling. Under this head one chap says
he was a member of a certain band of international
crooks and had spent four years in the Ohio State Pen. ;
the pride of another fellow's life was that he won forty-
three dollars from "Henry de Wolfe"; and one girl
told of a job of high-grading she was in on during the
gold rush in Nevada, and how, when the game was
pulled, the men intrusted twenty thousand dollars to
her ; and she made her get-away with it.

A NEW SLANT ON MOTHEEHOOD

The "Do not be bashful" was an ironical injunction
to add to the last question in the Obits. ; for in answering
it the autobiographers showed how they loathed them-
selves. One mother, filling in the blanks for her chUd
wonder, made the poor little one appear to say that she
attributed aU her cleverness, wit, and beauty directly
to her mother. A story of the admiration of that child
for its female parent would stir the heart of every fan
in filmdom. I regret that on the lot the little one does
not live up to the claims of her legal biographer.

The mother stuff goes over strong; and often, out of
sheer kindness of heart, the publicity man provides his
dramatic derelicts with beautiful parents. Over at the

THE BBLL-KINGBRS 303

Climax one of the ingenues has a really-truly mother,
who trails her daughter at all times. Her liveliest in-
terests, however, lie in Marie's pay-check and the alarm-
ing possibility that California may some day go dry.
I wish the writers of Mother Songs would convene out
here next time. They 'd get a new slant on motherhood.
Some of the youngsters have a hard time bringing up
their parents into positions they are not used to. Marie
has offered up many bone-dry prayers for her dear
mother's sake; but their answer still awaits. "What
"business is it of a lot of longhairs if a lady wants to
drink?" Mother is alcoholically very 1776.

One serious blunder that must be avoided by the pub-
licity man is incorrect billing. If we send out a story
in which the title of the play is in larger type than
that of the actress, we had better be quite sure we have
read the lady's contract or we may be letting ourselves
in for trouble. Some stars have contracts that read:
"The name must appear alone upon all advertising;
and in news copy it must be three agate lines larger
than the title." Bless your heart, some of our pets
carry rulers and yardsticks, and run about like tape-
worms, measuring aU the printed matter they see !

"We have a few leads who are generous enough to
share headlines with their co-stars ; but others insist upon
their contractual rights, and if one of these is appear-
ing in a picture with a lead of the opposite sex, she in-
sists that she shaU be "merely supported by Tom Sen-
tous."

A rather remarkable case of modesty — or was it in-
telligence? — ^was that of a famous star who demanded
that his name should appear simply along with other

304 FILM FOLK

members of the cast; and that the title should be the
point played up.

On the other hand, we have a leading woman who,
though her contract does not so specify, refuses to ap-
pear as a co-star with any man. Some time ago she was
cast with a beautiful male in a fine part ; but when she
found she had to share the screen with him, illness over-
came her. The sets were ready, so the picture was taken
with a substitute; and after it was well started the
sniffy lady recovered. Then it was announced that, be-
cause the substitute was very, very bad, the picture
would be made all over again, with our dashing lead
playing opposite our handsome Edgar.

But what do you think? She had a relapse! Then
the boss blew up and issued an ultimatum to the effect
that if she was not well enough to appear in the picture
by Monday there would be a broken contract, and the
lady could just naturally climb a tree and look for
another job. The picture was made ; and, furthermore,
we learn from the exchanges that the man "stole the
show" — ^which is vulgar slang, meaning that he put
it all over the woman.

THE FRIEND OP THE PBX)PLE

But, with all our tender care and solicitude for our
children's temperaments, we are in a constant state of
turmoil because some exhibitor, caring nothing for our
feelings, decides to feature his favorite. Of course it 's
none of our business; and, if a showman wishes to ring
a bell for an extra girl, it is his privilege — and we get
the kicks.

Last fall one of our fragile queens nearly lost her wits

THE BELL-RINGEES 305

because a local theater featured a fellow on the same bill
with her. Lese-majeste? You bet, and more! Why,
a publicity man would be shot in his bed before break-
fast if he did such a thing ; but nothing could be done
M the theater monster except to try to persuade him to
Bee the light. "When I pictured, with humiliating ges-
tures, the gentle lady's wrath, and how she was likely
to wreck the studio — and mayhap the industry — I
touched his pocket nerve ; and he relented.

Then out into the night with a gang of nasty bill-
stickers goes Harry McGrath — publicity man by day for
the Filmart Company — and plasters out the offensive
name of our nicest hero. If a certain admiral had been
a movie admiral, rather than a deep-sea one, he would
never have made his famous epigram: "There is glory
enough for all!" Not in this business!

Another great embarrassment occurs when our high-
estfaluting actors load up with big three-cylinder names
which take up so much room that the compositors won't
follow copy. We 're to blame for that, too. So, though
at times we are most encouragingly kissed, at others we
are kicked on the shins.

The ambition of every publicity man is to frame a
story that the Associated Press will carry. Of course
it must be convincingly true to the A. P. man, and of
national rather than local interest.

When the greatest mermaid in captivity was a little
minnow her press man says she had infantile paralysis;
but by sheer perseverance and athletic training she
overcame it entirely. So, when it was announced that
the beautiful swimmer would address the poor, stricken
children of New York at a special matinee, a hard-work-

306 FILM FOLK

ing p. m. sat hopefully tight. Then the horrid old
Health Department, having more interest in the physical
welfare of the Gothamites than it had in a good story
that would have gone all over the country, called off the
meeting.

On another occasion a presidential candidate was
touring the West ; and, as we had a character man who
was a bear at make-up, we tried to put over a good
joke that would appeal to our national sense of humor.
A delegation of prominent citizens was on hand one
morning to meet the candidate's special, scheduled to
arrive in Los Angeles at 10 :20 A. m. Just as the train
was due, a tall, dignified man, in square gray whiskers,
who, with a group of silk-hatted satellites, had been hid-
ing in the baggage-room, came through the wicket. A
reception committee hurried the party past the cheer-
ing throng to waiting automobiles, which immediately
set out to the hotel for a big public reception.

To the horror and amazement of the gaping crowd
there gathered, the "friend of the people" removed his
dignified foliage, while his high-hatted intimates howled
with laughter. Fortunately for the honor of a great
cause, the train was late; so the reception committee
had ample time to meet the real distinguished guest.
Perhaps, because of the delicacy of the political situa-
tion in California, the old A. P. refused to send out the
story.

A mean trick practiced sometimes by theatrical writ-
ers on newspapers is to steal our stories and credit
them to rival actors. If one of these unconscionable
wretches has occasion to boost a fellow, and is shy of
dope, he will, like as not, grab off a good story belonging

THE BELL-RINGERS 307

to another chap and hang it on the hero he is celebrat-
ing.

The advertising of moving-pictures has attained such
universal interest that purely local stories are utterly
futUe. There was a time when we furnished film stars
to open bazaars and sell tickets for all sorts of affairs;
but the local public worked this cheap bell-ringing to
death and the advertising it brought was negligible.

Once in awhile, however, we stage something spectac-
ular enough to break into the press of the whole coun-
try. All this winter — the word winter is used solely
from habit ; we press fellows wiU boost California, even
at a funeral — as I started to say, all this winter the
various civic organizations have been giving bazaars
and shows for the Red Cross, and some made quite a
little money. "When it came our turn we turned loose
all our publicity departments, with the most pleasing
results :

"A Great Ball Game between the Comedians and
Tragedians of Movie Land! Eighteen Famous Film
Stars at the Bat — Eighteen!"

For inside ball and excitement the players made the
Big-League fellows look like a lot of Irishmen on the
eighteenth of March. The rules had to be somewhat
changed to accommodate genius. When the heaviest
custard-pie hitter in the world sliced a ball back over
the reporters' stand, and immediately set out for second
base and return, the umpire, one Mr. B. Oldfield, ap-
peared quite dazed with the unusual procedure; but
something prompted him to call "Foul!" This in-
stantly brought down upon his head the syndicated
clubs of some notorious police, who then keystoned the

308 FILM FOLK

poor chap all over the diamond. Evidently the famous
Ump saw some new lights, for he reversed his decision,
and Mr. C. Chaplin was given a home run. For sheer
spontaneous fun this unique game beat all the celluloid
comedies ever filmed; and the story went all over the
country.

WONDERFUL DOUBUNG

At a banquet held the same night the plainest comedian
in the world — and that is fame ! — sold kisses for a dollar
apiece. And, to show the sacrifices American women
will make for their country's good, every miss and missis
at the board made her silver sacrifice. Result: seven
thousand five hundred dollars raised in a single day!
Thus it is demonstrated that even the ignoble game of
publicity may be turned to noble purposes.

It is fashionable for business men to laugh at writ-
ers, and such; but when we get our little engine run-
ning it makes all their efficiency experts look like defec-
tives. Early in the winter a huge petition was started
in New York, and the securing of signatures was turned
over to every big organization in the city — ^police, fire,
street-car companies, hospitals, department stores, and
moving-pictures. "We worked through our publicity de-
partments; and before these other outfits had even
organized we had turned in more signatures than all
of them subsequently obtained. Monday — Organized;
Tuesday — Had slides made and solicited every theater
in New York; "Wednesday and Thursday — Theaters ran
announcement on slides between all shows; Friday —
Petition was passed and signed by every film patron at-

THE BELL-RINGERS 309

tending in New York. Result — Two hundred and fifty-
thousand signatures in a day !

The unique trick of doubling, which occurs only in
the art of the photo-drama, often extends to the pub-
licity stories and pictures of leads. Pretty girls of the
comedy companies have very little to do except to pose
for publicity stories; so it is not uncommon for one of
them to eke out an honest living by doubling photo-
graphically for some lead who hasn't the qualifications
for certain pictures. I know one popular leading lady
who, for anatomical reasons best known to herself, will
not don a bathing suit; but she does not wish to miss
this form of publicity, for it is scandalously popular.
So she just hires a Clingstone Beauty, who types her
well, to do it for her.

There are many faces familiar to movie-magazine
fans whose fame lies in the "still." And a professional
beauty does not need to act to get into the moving-pic-
tures; she may romp round with some studio's famous
beauties on the beach, or appear as a coquettish cloak-
model in the fashion footage of the weekly news bulletin.
Incidentally, when we are simply stuck with a charity
bazaar request, these are the famous film favorites whom
we send to sell chances on the automobile.

McGinty, of the Eureka, framed a unique stunt of
doubling a while ago in which he deceived the profes-
sion itself. Returning from San Francisco one day, he
learned that his pet Eastern star had left very suddenly
for New York. Having planned a tremendous farewell
for the popular Miss Willie, he was temporarily dis-
turbed when he learned that she had sneaked off and

310 FILM FOLK

killed his story. But only temporarily. He 'd give
her a farewell, anyway; nobody knew she had gone; so
why not?

HAVING PUN WITH VISITORS

' ' On the afternoon of her departure Miss Willie faced
half the population of Film Land who had come to see
her off. Literally buried in flowers, she stood on the
back platform of the train and waved her hands and
threw kisses to all her admiring friends." Mary Jane
Barbour, sometimes called "little" Willie, who did the
doubling, told me afterward that she really felt quite a
thrill, even though she knew the affair was intended for
another girl, three thousand miles away.

Every visitor to California, both multi-millionaires
and those without distinction, wishes to see how movies
are made ; and they all make their way to the Mammoth,
the only plant open to the public. The place is thronged
all day with convention delegates, rubberneck tourists,
rich goldfish from the hotels, and distinguished visitors.
While the conventions and tourists lend themselves to
certain publicity, it is the distinguished visitor upon
whom the p. m. pounces.

The most austere statesman will soon melt in the
carnival spirit of studio life; and the alert p. m., see-
ing that the Big Squeeze is getting kittenish, nurses
him along, and presently he has him out for a lark. He
will then do anything suggested. If, on the screen, you
should some day see Madame Schumann-Heink sud-
denly emerge from the Salvation Army and begin to
sing "Hallelujah! I 'm a bum"; or if you go to a
good old nickel slum picture and see Fritz Kreisler

THE BELL-RINGERS 311

fiddling in a cabaret, do not think that these great artists
are working extra in the movies. Those scenes were
mere incidents of a happy day at the Mammoth. It is to
be hoped the gentle Russian anarchs will understand our
hospitality when they behold Count Tolstoi blandly
sitting in a den of lions.

As a poetic reminder of the Chicago World's Fair,
the villagers of that sentimental city may some day
see a picture of their somewhat respected mayor riding
a camel through the streets of Cairo; and as a public
tribute to the seaworthiness of a certain type of jitney,
the peace-loving owner was driven madly over our
"prairie," while one of our best cowboys roped a "mad
steer" from the front seat. Famous statesmen, soldiers,
and pickle kings have appeared in roles that were highly
amusing to themselves and duck soup for the press
fellows.

One of the great merchants of America, out for a
wifeless holiday, became so hilarious at the studio that
the p. m. on the job manoeuvered him into a set with his
most ferocious vamp. The merchant prince thought it
great fun, at first ; but when the naughty girl, at a signal
from the p. m., began to vamp him all over the stage,
he had to call for help. Though the poor man blushed
considerably, he seemed not entirely to have disliked the
experience. It would be interesting to be on deck the
day wifey happens into the theater showing that film.

Convention delegates are immensely helpful to pub-
licity. After adjourning they pour out to the Mam-
moth and indulge in bank runs, bread riots, and milk
banquets, or as simple rubbernecks. They spread the
fame of the studio to all ends of the world; and for

312 FILM POLK

weeks after a bunch of delegates has appeared — even
as atmosphere — ^the office is bombarded by letters askiag
when and where the film will be shown. Ever after-
ward these people feel a personal interest in the Mam-
moth label.

The publicity that stirs most people to their sordid
depths is the question of salaries. "Do the pinheads
get it?" "Of course they don't! That's just the
same old Barnum-Bailey press bunk." "Say, if that
guy is getting ten thousand a week, then I 'm worth a
million!" "Great heavens! What is our civilization
coming to when we pay a clown six hundred and fifty
thousand dollars a year, while our ministers starve!"
Time was when we lied outrageously about the wages
we paid for dramatic sin; but nowadays we don't have
to. Tes, those awful salaries are true ; more than true,
but whether they are a curse or a blessing to the in-
dustry only time will tell.

Anybody who doubts that an actor can earn half a
million dollars in a year — I use the word earn in its busi-
ness definition — ^should get out his slate and do a little
figuring. A high-class theater will play to two or three
thousand dollars for a two-weeks run of a good drawing
picture ; so it is reasonable to expect that it will gladly
pay a thousand dollars for the film. Now suppose there
are one hundred and fifty first-class theaters in the U. S.
A., all featuring the same picture for the same first run.
That means one hundred and fifty copies at a thousand
dollars each. And suppose the actor's contract calls
for the making of twelve pictures a year; this means
that the man's films earn one million eight hundred

THE BBLL-EINGERS 313

thousand dollars. This is to say nothing of the second
and third runs.

It is beside the point to say that nobody is worth
half a million dollars a year; the fellow's films earn
it, and even a "dub actor" may capitalize his earning
capacity. After paying this huge salary, great sums
for production, and thousands for publicity, there still
remain, out of the one million eight hundred thousand
dollars, enormous profits to the promoters.

I was commissioned by my company a while ago to
offer a certain favorite two hundred and fifty thousand
dollars a year on a two-years' contract; and he came
back with the statement — and the proof — that another
studio had offered him nearly twice that amount. Four
years ago the chap was earning only forty dollars a
week, and his sudden rise to such film favoritism has
quite flabbergasted him.

"When they offered me this fortune," he said to me,
"I told them frankly that the thing was a joke; for, as
a measure of artistic success, it made me about twenty
times as good as Henry Irving. But if I was earning
the money, why, I guess it was coming to me.

" 'Well, the truth is, Bill,' they replied, 'you will not
quite earn your contract ; but, having no other big stars,
we are going to use your name to pull for the studio.' "

A few years ago there was but one man and one
woman — ^woman ? — a mere girl ! — who were earning over
ten thousand dollars a week. Now there are probably
eight. A very strange change in the public taste is
indicated by the increasing popularity of the men. It
was not many years ago when the studios were wit-ended

314 FILM FOLK

to know how to popularize their male dolls. The best
of them were used mostly as foils and beautiful cuties
for the more popular movie queens.

But now we find three or four men in the ten-thousand-
dollars class; and the strange — and hopeful — thing is
that not one of them is a pretty boy. Sheer genius for
comedy is responsible for one; another has arrived be-
cause of his bounding joyous personality; another, raw-
boned and as plain as an old shoe, seems to have touched
bottom in the sentimental hearts of his admirers ; while a
fourth has won out because of a certain pensive sadness
and artistic repression.

There seem to be no stars of the second magnitude in
the pictures. We drop abruptly from the supersalaries
down to the thousand-a-week class. Think of calling a
thousand dollars a week a drop !

Though there is much disagreement among the bosses
as to the wisdom of paying great salaries, they all now
agree that the publicity of them has worked a great in-
jury to the industry. The public resents such abnormal-
ities; and the companies themselves, by outbidding one
another with greater salaries, are often beaten at their
own game.

Suppose, for instance, a studio spends a fortune in
developing, training, and advertising a star, like Mar-
guerite Marigold. Just as she has become popular and
is beginning to pay back something on the investment,
lo and behold, another studio bobs up and offers her
five hundred dollars a week ! When, in turn, this studio
has spent a mint on her, along comes a third and offers
her one thousand dollars. By this little game of star-
stealing every company loses its original investment;

THE BELL-RINGERS 315

for when a star leaves she carries her prestige to the
new studio, and the old one has to discover and develop
a new favorite.

This suicidal warfare has led to queer protective meas-
ures. Some studios are now copyrighting names that
the struggling young actress is glad enough to start
with, just to be in the movies, but which she cannot
take with her after the company has spent a fortune
upon it. This is particularly true of the baby stars;
they soon grow out of babyhood, and all their advertis-
ing would be lost if the same name could not be passed
along to another infant.

Another policy is to stress the studio label in all ad-
vertising and play very softly on the personal note.
"Stars may come and stars may go, but the studio goes
on forever!" paraphrases one corporation.

On the other hand, one of the great picture corpora-
tions believes in and capitalizes the drawing power of
names.

"I don't care how much I pay a star if we can make
ten per cent, off his picture," says the president, "but
star salaries are going down from now on. Due to the
great investments in plants, the cost of production is
constantly going up; and more, very much more, will
have to be paid for stories if the art is to survive. Di-
rectors and" — oh, goody! — "publicity men, and all those
who contribute to the stars' success, must have a greater
share in the earnings."

It may seem strange, in a country which largely meas-
ures the merit of things by their cost, that this studio
forbids the mention of money in all its advertising.

"Boys," said the director-general one day in the

316 FILM FOLK

publicity office, "when a woman who has been working
over a tub of suds all day goes to see Marie play a
pathetic little part in rags, she is emotionally touched;
but when she learns that this same child is earning six
hundred thousand dollars a year ! — ^twelve thousand dol-
lars a week!! — two thousand dollars a day!!! — ^she is
made very resentful. There is a natural indignation in
the hearts of all hard workers over the very unequal
distribution of the goods of this world ; but when a mere
slip of a girl draws wages of fifty thousand dollars a
month, the underpaid women will never like her quite
the same. No, lads; we must cut out all reference to
cost of production; sheer money does not mean a good
picture, and our salaries are vulgar enough without
advertising them."

These conflicting psychologies had been puzzling me
for a long time, but I had just about concluded that the
Mammoth was right : Advertise the label !

"Blanche," said I, as she snuggled up alongside me in
the protecting dark of the projecting room, "I think in
a few years we shall be advertising our wares just the
same as automobiles. After all, 'the play 's the thing.' "

"But, Harry," peeped up my exasperating wife, "the
play certainly is not the whole thing! You '11 never be
able to eliminate personalities so long as people would
rather go to see Sarah Bernhardt in East Lynne than
to see Bessie Flopit tackle Juliet. I 11 go to see Spen-
cer Grandon in any old film ! If it was n't that I love
you, despite your old bald head, I 'd be simply mad over
Spencer. He 's got the grandest hair and "

Truth often makes herself felt in the protecting dark
of the projecting room.

VIII

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS

(THE SAD STORY OF THE SCENARIO WRITER)

I AM a scenario reader for the Pilmart Feature-Pic-
ture Company.

"Aha!" you say. "The fellow who stole my story!
At last the son-of-a-gun has been smoked out! Let's
see what he has to say for himself."

Well, here goes, fellow-countrymen of mine ! I '11 tell
you the truth about this business, let the ax fall where
it will. 'Tis no uneasy conscience that urges me on, for,
to speak frankly, I have been insulted so long I have
become quite shameless. To get from ten to twenty
J'accuse letters a day finally makes the soul callous.
Calling a fellow a thief and a porch-climber is not very
respectful; but a kidnapper! I believe we lynch them,
do we not? Yet scenario readers go on, day after day,
stealing the intellectual children of their fellow-artists
and bringing them up as their own. Monsters !

Now, mind you, we of the Burglars' Union care little
for the asparagus that is cast upon us in our daily mail ;
but unfortunately — I mean fortunately — we have wives,
and wives somehow do not like to have the villagers in-
sulting their hubbies. Besides, we good, union burglars
on t^e inside have grown to feel a great contempt for

317

318 FILM POLK

the little non-union thieves on the outside. That old,
old scab trick of the petty Larsen mixing in the crowd,
crying "Stop thief!" as it spills through the streets,
makes us smile wanly. But our wives ! It is well that
most of the J 'accusers live a long way off.

Louise Belden, my favorite and only wife, was looking
over some submissions the other day and asked permis-
sion to reply to one of the many that ended this way:
"If you reject this scenario, what assurance have I that
you wiU not subsequently use the idea?" And she re-
plied as follows:

Deab Sib: We have used the plot many times already; but
a great respect for the memory of De Maupassant would forbid
us using it in the dress you have chosen without giving credit
to the Guy who really wrote it.

You see now that this article is likely to contain as
many violent accusations as snappy confessions; so let's
be off.

SUCCESSFUL IMPROMPTU DRAMAS

I came into this game in the wet autumn of 1907
after having fiddled round in newspaper work for sev-
eral years, occasionally landing a short story in a maga-
zine of diminishing popularity. My first job with the
Chicago studio of the Climax was doing publicity; but
that was merely incidental, for in those days we were
all supposed to do everything, from splicing film to tak-
ing parts. Within a year I found myself working a
camera for that grand old director. Bill Condon. It
is fashionable nowadays to speak slightingly of the old-

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 319

time directors; but there were some of those boys who
had delightful wit and extraordinary resourcefulness.
At that time we had no scenario departments, every
director making his own stories — often as he went along.
For instance, one day the big boss came to Condon and
said:

"Bill, I 've hired that Wild "West Show for to-morrow
at a thousand dollars, and I want you to go out and shoot
a good one-reeler out of 'em."

"Cowboys in Chicago, eh?" thought Condon out
loud. "I gotcha."

The next morning we made a lot of ridiculous scenes
of cowboys in automobiles, on railroad trains, and tear-
ing through the streets on horseback ; and, in the after-
noon, a bunch of close-ups at the studio. These, when
spliced with some good stock film of Western rodeos,
evolved into a corking tale of a chap who went West,
became a cowboy, returned East to inherit a fortune,
became bored and lonesome, and finally — as a joyous
joke — ^telegraphed for the whole ranch to come East at
his expense.

The behavior of these cowboys at the home of their
millionaire friend would not have found acceptance in
any book of etiquette. The story was logical, bright,
and full of excitement ; and its release made many thou-
sands of dollars for the Climax. Some of the best of
the early photo-dramas were made under just such in-
spirational methods.

As spectacular action was the backbone of most of
our pictures, we constantly kept loaded up on stock
film of fires, accidents, auto races, floods, parades, and

320 FILM FOLK

big crowds; and, having a lot of good punches on ice,
we wrote our stories round them. Some of the greatest
pictures of the past were made for very little money,
the studio shots being inconsequential, while fortuitous
circumstance furnished the big scenes for next to noth-
ing.

WHEN THE VILLAGEBS ASSIST

A queer communication, protesting against the "wan-
ton waste of burning down a five-story dwelling just to
get a picture," came to us one time from a civic organiza-
tion. This was high praise to our convincing use of
stock flashes. I '11 tell you how the picture was made:

An interior — studio — shows a young lady reading by
the window. She suddenly hears fire-bells, jumps up,
runs to the window and looks out. Cut-in, showing fire-
engines coming down the street — stock film. Young
lady turns and registers horror as smoke is seen through
the window — studio. Fire-engines playing hoses on
burning building — stock. Young lady runs into hall;
runs back into room, suffocating — studio. Cutting back
and forth from the real fire to the scenes made at the
studio, we got the characters so identified with stock
film that the continuity fooled even a high-browed civic
club. There was much more to the story than I have
indicated, but that is enough to show how stock film
may be used.

Whenever we got an emergency call, if possible we
took along a hero, heroine, and villain, and registered
them in the actual scene. This made the studio con-
tinuity much easier. Ten years ago the unsophisticated
villagers often quite misunderstood our antics when out

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 321

on location, and we had to be very alert lest they crab
our action. One time Tom Sentous — ^base wretch! —
tried to lock Beatrice Hunter in a burning building down
in Clark Street, and the crowd broke through the police
lines and set upon Tom like a pack of wolves, while a
couple of perfectly strange heroes broke in the door and
rescued Bee.

"Keep crankin', Sam," said Condon. "I thought
this might happen; so I doped my story to use either
way. . . . Now go and get the name and address of
the guy that 's gotta holt of Bee. I may want to use him
in the studio. ' '

On another occasion Condon and I were nearly mobbed
because this single-minded director tried to get a hero
and a heroine into a railroad wreck when every able-
bodied man on the job was working like a slave to get out
the dead and dying.

Even the stock film of the travelogue stuff was often
grabbed off by these instantaneous scenario writers.
Harry McClure, who went round the world getting edu-
cational film, would dramatize his traveling companions ;
and some of the stories he wove round seemingly com-
monplace incidents were downright masterly. When
Mac was filming a court reception of the King of Siam,
a very beautiful young girl fainted in the arms of a
handsome chap beside her, and had to be carried from
the presence of the king by court attendants. Was the
maiden overcome by the solemnity of the great Presence ?
She was not. She and her brother were simply naughty
children who had gone into cahoots with Mac to make a
king appear as "atmosphere" in a photo-drama. A
parade of white elephants next day gave the conspira-

322 FILM POLK

tors a chance to get some perfectly bully atmosphere
for their snappy little story.

The using of stock film, round which to build stories,
has produced startling results. Some of our most prom-
inent men who have been shot for the weekly news serv-
ice would be delighted to know that their noble sconces
are sometimes used to dignify a movie murder trial.
The Climax one time bought about three hundred feet
of Ex-President Taft, which we thought we might want
to use to get heroes out of jail.

Stock film, which in those days was the "punch"
round which alert directors built their scenarios, now
serves a secondary purpose. For instance, if we should
be doing a good story — with a real plot — of circus peo-
ple, we could, no doubt, make most of it right on the
lot; but, in order to enrich the local color and to give
the picture completeness, we use some stock flashes of
circus parades and big-tent exteriors. What was once
considered the big stuff we now use merely as atmos-
phere.

IN THE OLD DAYS

It was not many years, in the life of the pictures, be-
fore all the day's accidents and spectacular happen-
ings had been done to death, and the studios began buy-
ing ideas. Five and sometimes ten dollars was the
stimulus that started the ferrets digging up punches,
and some were alert enough to nose out as many as
twenty ideas in a week. This naturally led to the em-
ployment of the most facile idea-mongers on regular
salary ; and thus began the first scenario departments in
the moving-picture business.

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 323

I often think of that scenario room, with my former
colleagues up to their ears in the back files of old maga-
zines, snooping round to find ideas. Little did they
dream that they were starting a habit which would be
hard to break, and a reputation that we shall never
live down. In perfect innocence they pursued this ethi-
cal pilfering; nobody cared. Furthermore, the stories
were not actually stolen ; only the punches, round which
new stories could be written.

Then one day a momentous thing happened — small
enough in itself, but epoch-making in its consequences.
The Climax announced, with great advertising gusto,
that it had bought the film rights to a certain well-
known story, and had paid the author a large sum.
Bingo ! Right away every publisher, author, and maga-
zine clamped down hard on his copyrights, and in the
future we could just naturally pay for the stuff we
used — or steal it.

As a consequence of the closing down of the gold
mines, writers began submitting stories, and we bought
them as cheaply as possible ; but there were many studios
which had burgled so long that they thought it a per-
fect outrage to pay for a story. What was a story,
anyway? A good director and a popular baby-doll
did n't need a story.

In any event, why pay for it, when all you wanted
was the idea ? And a bright fellow could get that while
he was reading the story and handing it back as "not
available."

Those were the days, and they were not so long ago —
I have a childish suspicion that with a few second-class
studios they are still present — ^when grand larceny was

324 FILM FOLK

at its grandest. A chap told me that he stood and saw
a typist copy his story word for word and page by page,
and the next day his MS. was returned to him as "un-
suitable. ' ' Some studios actually had synopses made of
every story that came, pasted them in scrapbooks, and
then permitted their directors to read them at their
leisure.

Now, in all fairness to these jolly pirates, it must be
said that they were allowed very little money for such
a secondary purpose as stories; and if they spent too
much, the bosses would think they were witless and
would hire some one "who could write his own stuff."

When we first began to buy stories from famous writ-
ers, I went one day to see a picture written by an author
I knew quite well, and it was very poor; so I wrote to
the advertised offender and asked him how he could
write such a rotten scenario. He replied as follows:

Beab Sam: I didn't. One day I paid a visit of curiosity
to the studio, and a fellow in the scenario department handed
me a synopsis of an Alaskan story and asked me what was the
matter with it. I glanced hurriedly over the copy, made a com-
monplace remark or two, and was about to leave, when he handed
me a check for a hundred dollars. My " professional opinion was
worth it," he insisted. I thought it was just another example
of movie insanity to spend money, and was right pleased to have
him pick on me to give it to; but I see that the hundred carried
with it the foster parentage of that terrible tale. You are in a
delicious business, Sam. I commiserate you.

As the story gained importance as a factor in the
photo-drama, and particularly as the whole field of free
fiction had been plowed to the limit, the studios finally

PLOTS AND COUNTEKPLOTS 325

decided to pay for everything. This looked hopeful for
the author, but, alas! he didn't get his hope; there was
another way his brains could be used and not paid for.
"If the company insists upon paying for the story,"
said the old-time director with his glorious record of
individual achievement, "all right; they will pay me,
for I prefer to write my own." But, one might ask,
did these men never run dry? How could they keep
it up?

A NEW SET OP EULES

The fact is, they did keep it up. It is true they would
occasionally stroll over to the absurd scenario depart-
ment and glance through the submissions, just to show
a little interest in the children there. One of them
would sometimes spend a whole morning reading the
"rubbish"; and when lunchtime came he would emit a
bored yawn and say, "Piffle — ^nothing but piffle! Well,
I guess I '11 have to write my own, as usual." I have
often wondered what the authors of those piffling stories
thought when they saw them upon the screen so very
thinly disguised.

When Mr. Lewis became manager of the Mammoth
in Los Angeles, he found that the directors, besides
earning salaries of from fifty to three hundred dollars
a week, were being paid as much as five hundred dollars
for their "own" scenarios. In the great upheaval of
the moving-picture industry at that time, the new men
who came in found they had inherited, in addition to
business chaos, questionable honor and naive ethics.
The most persistent accusation against the companies

326 FILM POLK

was this charge of stealing stories; and to live down
this unpleasant heritage remains the hardest task be-
fore them.

I was reading submissions, and occasionally writing
scenarios, when the storm hit us. After the big chief
had the plant running with some degree of order and
efficiency, he turned his cold, Scotch eye on our happy
little department. The first cruel order stated that no
employee of the company would henceforth be paid
aught but his salary. If he had a grand idea that was
keeping him awake nights, he could kick in with it —
but with no pay. Furthermore, if any member of the
company was discovered selling scenarios elsewhere, im-
mediate dismissal would follow. This order hit a lot
of those directors right between the eyes, and several
of them left in high indignation.

As an added protection to authors, directors were for-
bidden to direct their own stories, even though they were
"contributed." Thus, the greatest offender was ren-
dered harmless, for now he had not the slightest in-
centive to steal stories. It would seem that the last
chance for theft was, therefore, gone, and the poor
struggling scenario writer could submit his stuff with-
out having it burglarized; but we highbrows must not
be overlooked. We were the original thieves, and had
become the law-proof plagiarists par excellence. What
was there to stop me, for instance, from reading a sub-
mission, returning it, and swiping the idea, which I
would turn into a scenario of my own? Nothing; ab-
solutely nothing but my conscience, and that wasn't
always working as nicely as it should. It is true that
I should draw no extra pay for the thing itself, but my

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 327

extraordinary fertility of mind would be worth a large
salary from the company.

Again the red-headed big boss came to the rescue of
the absurd authors. Now he divided us into sheep and
goats. The sheep were to read submissions, but were
not allowed to write; while the poor goats had to
write scenarios from the stuff we accepted. That sus-
picious old boss also thought it best to divorce the sheep
from the goats; so we were given widely separated
offices and no intercommunication was permitted. I was
a sheep, and after this change in our arrangements I
never used to see the goats; and the new ones I hardly
knew by name.

When a scenario is now submitted it is bought or
returned on its merits — as understood by the readers —
by men and women who have no possible interest in it
beyond the hope that it will be useful to the studio. If
it is accepted, it is turned over to the goats, who whip
it into shape for shooting. The chances of theft at our
studio, and others that have adopted this system, are so
remote as to be a negligible factor in an author's con-
sideration. While I was there we paid from fifty to a
thousand dollars for every idea and story we used.
There are a few large companies that still permit their
readers to write; and, though they are gradually in-
stalling high-grade people, it will be much better when
even unconscious plagiarism is impossible.

The prevalent idea that moving-picture companies
still steal all their stuff is shown to be absurd when one
looks over the cost sheets of the many pictures we turned
out. To appropriate twenty-five thousand dollars for
a five-reel picture and to steal the story from which it

328 FILM FOLK

is made ? No, indeed ! So desperate are studios to get
good stuff that some time ago one of them offered to
pay one hundred thousand dollars for one hundred ac-
ceptable stories. On the contrary, it is the knowledge
that movies are paying big money for scenarios that has
brought down the deluge which is upon us.

WHERE IDEAS COUNT

When the joyous news that we were paying real
money leaked out, and the happy recipients of our
cheeks exhibited them to every passing stranger, the
bombardment began ; but when the trade magazines took
up the cry, and wonderful schools of scenario writing
were established, and there came into existence agencies
that guaranteed to dispose of scenarios from the pens
of anybody, "without education or previous training,"
the dramatic eruption became volcanic. Yet, with the
avalanche of so-called scenarios that daily pour in upon
us, there is very, very little that is worth a tinker's
damn; and if you have ever heard a tinker, you will
know I could n't say less. I should say that, of the two
thousand submissions a week that came to us, not one
half of one per cent, was available for any purpose.
If we relied on our free-lance contributors, we should
have to shut down. Most of our wants are supplied by
certain well-known photo-dramatists and short-story
men, and the few goats we keep in captivity right on
the lot, where we can pick on them when we think their
stuff is particularly puerile.

The task of a scenario reader is more difficult than the
same position on a magazine; for in the latter case the

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 329

reader can often tell, almost at a glance, whether the
stuff is available. A fellow may have a bully idea, but
as the magazines are not running schools of short-story
writing the MS. may be returned without further pe-
rusal if the diction is hopelessly bad. But in the case of
the scenario the idea is the whole thing; so we cannot
afford to neglect reading the most illiterate story that
comes to us. We read them all with avidity, in the hope
that perhaps the author has somewhere concealed in
the middle of his muddle an idea worth developing. It
is because we sometimes find poor material by new writ-
ers that we have a staff that can work it over into some-
thing worth while.

Hope of financial gain does not alone explain why
every man, woman, and child is writing scenarios —
or is about to. We receive hundreds of stories with the
authors' compliments, and many are not even signed.
One director is at present making a corking comedy for
which his company will gladly pay the author a thou-
sand dollars — if they can find him.

No; it must be the universal human cry for expres-
sion that prompts motor-men and supreme-court judges
to submit scenarios. An art is practiced in direct pro-
portion to its understanding; and, as the photo-drama is
by far the most democratic of all the arts, everybody
wants to contribute, either as an actor or a writer. If
the gang understood music, poetry, and painting, they
would all be drumming, drooling, and daubing; but to
most people the fine arts are closed professions. Here
is an art, however, that a child or a Chinaman can un-
derstand, even though the titles are unintelligible to

330 FILM FOLK

them. It was Aristotle, I think, who said that the most
elemental intellectual quality was the power to recog-
nize familiar objects.

THE PEOPLE WHO WEITE

Whatever the reason, the whole world is writing for
the screen. We get stories from Europe, Asia, and
South America. Some come in Pidgin-English; while
one chap, fearful that some one might beat him to it,
sent up his shorthand notes. One came a few months
ago from a Japanese Freshman up at Berkeley ; and it is
too bad that it is a tragedy — oh, a very tragic tragedy !
If we could film it with his naive subtitles, it would be a
scream. For instance, when the unhappy wife repudi-
ated her husband for her lover, the title read: "He is
not my connubial partner. He possession only my
corpse. I bestow not my personality."

There is always a part of the population, working in-
doors or in dark places, who could not participate in the
picture play ; but there is nothing to prevent them from
writing scenarios ; and apparently nothing does. I know
only one motor-man who is not writiag a romance or a
drama. In the depths of the canning factories and in
the cellars of the office buildings are thousands of burn-
ing geniuses who are writing — on one side of the paper
only, according to scenario requirement — of escapades
that would test the nerve of the best of us.

Shopgirls turn out romances by tens of thousands that
would make the Perils of Pauline seem safe and tame ;
and if our actors took some of the chances the stenog-
rapher^ and elevator men frame up for them, every hos-
pital and morgue in the place would be filled to overflow-

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 331

ing. It is so easy, in the safe seclusion of the boiler-
room, to write: "The hero falls headfirst from the
third-story window, but is saved by striking the angle
of an awning, which turns him over, so that he lands
uninjured on his feet."

Of the Americans, I should say that newspapermen
and short-story failures are the most prolific contribu-
tors. Close to the head of the literary pageant come the
professionals — ^ministers, judges, psychics, and healers;
then the clerks and paying-tellers ; propagandists, cranks,
and plain nuts. And bringing up the rear come the old
vets; they are the employees, from camera kids to the
bosses in New Tork, their wives and sweethearts, aunts
and uncles. Perhaps the most ferocious writers are the
actors themselves, who simply cannot find stories ade-
quate to their peculiar and splendid personalities. It 's
a dam shame that scenario writers insist upon showing
more than one person on the screen ; for if they would
only consult some of the author-actors, they would learn
that a good five-reeler consists of five thousand feet of
close-ups of the leading man.

A curious fact — the reason for which I shall leave to
the psychologists — is that women contributors are vastly
in the minority; yet they send in most of the morbid
stuff.

There are persistent writers who come back month
after month for years without selling a thing. One girl
in Vermont always intersperses her synopsis with quaint
personal parentheses. Here is a fragment of one : "It
is the night before election, and John Borden is seen
sitting at his desk marking his ballot (I hope, Mr. Editor,
you voted for Mr. Wilson) and as he makes his last

332 FILM FOLK

mark he pours himself a glass of beer (I want the vil-
lain to drink beer, for you know, Mr. Editor, beer is
very degrading), then he rises and leaves the room."

There are thousands of burning geniuses who are hav-
ing their wicks trimmed at the scenario schools ; and we
can tell, from so-called studio patter, just where each
of these scholastic scenarios comes from. It is as ab-
surd to attempt to learn the technic of the photo-drama
without the stage, camera, and laboratory as it would be
to take a correspondence course in seal-training. Most
of the jargon learned in many schools is wrong, or of
purely local use, and only clutters up the idea the poor
student is submitting. I know of no large company that
does not prefer a straight, short-story synopsis.

And what of the plots ?

One morning at breakfast Louise read me a real story
from the one paper that has dedicated itself to Truth —
so the editor asserts. The piece in question was about a
burglar who had entered a house in Pasadena; but in-
stead of finding rich loot, he came upon a poor mother
in great distress because her child had croup. This was
too much for the burglar ; for it seems he had three little
burgs himself, all of whom he had nursed back to health
and burglary, and he was, therefore, the grandest croup-
ist in Kern County. So for the nonce he gave up crime ;
and running out to the kitchen he started the hot-water
kettle, and when it was boiling he fixed up some steam-
inhaling device, and Hortense got well. It was a right
smart story, true to life and full of heart interest.

"Sam, how many scenarios will that story bring in?"
asked Louise.

"Fifty in thirty days," I replied.

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 333

Two weeks later my sleuthhound wife came in with the
news that, between three other companies and ourselves,
ninety-two submissions had been received from Cali-
fornia alone. As the story traveled East they kept com-
ing from all over the United States ; and even after the
lapse of ten months I sometimes received as many as
three in a week.

Infantile paralysis was another cheerful subject that
yielded an amazing harvest. Then along came Mexico,
with its crop of Villas; and now we are simply over-
whelmed with the "patriotic" story. There aren't
enough smoke-pots and bunting in the world to picture
some of the splendid dreams of our photo-dramatic
patriots.

THE KIDNAPPED KIDNEYS

Besides these rather obvious sensations, the news-
papers inspired other strange crops. A few years ago,
when Doctor Carrel was doing unusual surgery at the
Eoekefeller Institute, certain sunny dispositions saw de-
lightful plots in these anatomical miracles. One happy-
go-lucky lad sent us a story of how a young broker, suf-
fering from Bright 's Disease, got even with his rival by
stealing his kidneys. The hero hired two surgeons and a
first-class kidnapper; and, after capturing and chloro-
forming the old crab, they brought him on the table and
opened him wide. Meantime the young broker was hav-
ing his defective plumbing removed.

When all was ready the kidnapping surgeon kidnapped
the kidneys of the rich man and sewed them into the bro-
ker, while the other surgeon took the bum set and fas-
tened them into the old crab. Then both the principals

334 FILM FOLK

were sewed up and taken home. After that the young
broker gained so much in strength that he was able to
push the rich man to the wall, whereas the old crab lost
his nerve and always walked with a limp ; and he never
knew that his downfall was due to his wearing the indis-
posed organs of his young rival.

It is interesting to know that there are fashions in vil-
lains. A few years ago the swart Mexican was the
vogue; then the Japanese became fashionable. In the
patriotic stuff they were indispensable as spies and con-
spirators. If one of them went out to photograph a
circus parade, certain newspapers got the fidgets and
proclaimed, in hectic extras, a very yellow peril, while
others kept us scared to death lest our Japanese truck-
gardener might have a rifle concealed among his onions ;
and what the newspapers said always found expression
in our scenarios. The reader may have one guess as to
the nationality of our present villains.

However our tastes may change in heroes and villains,
the same old plots go on forever. If I were asked
which of these was the greatest favorite, I should be puz-
zled ; for the popularity of some of them is inexplicable.
One that wiU recur twenty times a month is about the
brother and sister who separate in youth, meet later in
life, fall in love, and — just as they are about to marry —
discover the relationship. By some queer perversity,
if the submitter is a woman she usually permits the cere-
mony to proceed.

The black-and-white mesalliance — called the tar-
brush plot — is also very common; another — the dear
little locket that hangs about the child's neck, from the
cradle to the big scene, unobserved by the nurse-maids of

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 335

her youth or the osteopaths of her maturity, is always
the source of happy denouements. Kidnapping is fash-
ionable with everybody but the censors; and we get
Charlie Rosses and Dorothy Arnolds by the hundred,
on whom the censors would never hang their tags.

Little things like the physical limitations of the
camera give nary a care to the light-hearted photo-
dramatist, and we get all sorts of disquisitional and
metaphysical plots that couldn't possibly be canned on
celluloid. Weird double-exposure dream plots by the
psycho-analysts are now beginning to come in from the
New England States. Another snappy plot, which offers
some camera difficulties, solves the murder mystery by
finding the picture of the murder upon the eye of the
murderer.

I have talked to several readers and they all agree that
the most persistent stolen plot that comes to our desks
is De Maupassant's Diamond Necklace. I used to get it
on an average of ten times a month. The plots of 0.
Henry come next in popularity ; and trailing behind are
the stories of all the popular writers of the day. It
wouldn't be so bad if the kleptomaniacs would disguise
their pilferings, for that is about the only originality
possible to them. But most of these people don't take
that trouble ; and if we bought half of this stolen dope,
we should go broke paying damages to the copyright
owners.

There are several freaks of law that, when heard for
the first time, always send the novice scurrying off to his
typewriter. A pretty regular one is the law that frees
a wife from testifying against her husband, even though
she married him subsequent to the crime. You 've

336 FILM FOLK

thought of it. Of course ; everybody has ! The girl was
the only witness to the killing of the villain and the state
will hang Harold on her testimony. What shall he do?
Have her killed? No; he will marry her. She is
smuggled into jaU. as a nun ; and you are ready for the
big punch-— the confusion of the state in the court-
room scene. This plot has all the ingredients of popular
success — action, mystery, blood, love, and a happy end-
ing for the murderer !

Oh, I nearly forgot amnesia, the most prolific of plot
in the whole gamut of human idiosyncracies. Mr. New-
lywed goes down to the club to celebrate his happy con-
quest, and during the brawl somebody beans him with a
bottle, or else he runs into a lamp-post on the way
home, and instantly the light goes out from him. When
he recovers, his memory has deserted him; and off he
goes, forgetting everything, if not by his creditors forgot.
For twenty minutes on the silver screen we follow him
through the ensuing years ; and when, in later manhood,
he returns, with a set of furs upon his jowl and deep
furrows in his brow, he gumshoes up to the old homestead
and, peering through the window, sees his wife happily
married to another.

This story used to be ended by the husband's going
off — Enoch Arden stuff; but nowadays they usually have
the new husband run over by a jitney, so that the ending
will be happy for the amnesic husband.

THE TROUBLES OP THE READERS

Now perhaps it will be conceded that we poor readers
bear some pretty heavy crosses. It is difficult enough,
heaven knows, to have to wade through the tons of junk

PLOTS AND COUNTEEPLOTS 337

that comes to our desks ; but when, after finding an occa-
sional pearl, we later discover that it has been stolen, we
sit right down and have a good cry — or would if we were
not strong men. Most studios now have some old lit-
erary wheel-horse who has read everything in the world
and remembers it ; else we should be constantly held up
and asked to pay for counterfeits. At that, we occa-
sionally have to dig up five hundred or a thousand dol-
lars to the holder of the copyright, after having paid the
burglar who first turned it in.

Some of the tricks that are tried on us would them-
selves make pretty good scenarios. One girl mails in a
nice, cleanly-typed, literary fragment, and incloses with
it a letter to her from a famous author of best-sellers.
In the letter the kind author says: "I have read your
scenario and I think it is perfectly splendid," and so on.
Now who am I, to contradict a great author? Yet I
thought the story particularly punk — another amnesia
plot — and structurally hopeless. My first suspicion was
roused when I noticed that the precious letter was very
soiled, and my second bobbed up when I recalled the
insistence with which the young lady wished the return
of that letter.

Well, I returned it all right, story and all, and then
tipped the other fellows to watch for it; and, sure
enough, it turned up later at the Bioscope with an en-
tirely different story. That poor old letter has more
than fulfilled the hopes of the great author. It might
not be out of place to suggest to famous boosters that
they write the title of the thing they are sponsoring in
the body of the letter of recommendation.

Another chap sends in a story and naively says that

338 FILM FOLK

in reality he is a well-known magazine success, but that
he has bet a friend the studios care nothing for names
and buy stories only on their merits. I wrote and told
him he had won his bet — ^that was why I was returning
his scenario. On the other hand, one day I received the
most ignorantly written scenario I had ever seen.

Some of it was in pencil, some penned, and much of it
was printed in illiterate characters; several kinds of
paper had been used, including a generous piece of
butcher's brown. Yet I bought the story, because it was
a crackajack.

In response to a check for two hundred dollars, I re-
ceived a letter from one of our best-known authors saying
that he, also, had made a bet that the studios would pay
for a good story, no matter whence it came.

While on the subject of great authors, permit me to
pay my disrespects to a lot of them. They are the
loudest in their denunciation of our "piffling" stories;
yet many of the most ferocious denouncers treat us
shamefully and send us all the junk they cannot sell to
the magazines. Notwithstanding the fact that we have
met the highest prices in the market, they still refuse to
take our profession seriously. Some of the worst stuff
we' get comes from men with great names.

Last week we received a scenario from one of our
best-known authors, the plot of which revolved about a
diamond that always turned blood-red in the presence
of a murderer! Little child's fairy-tale stuff. I urged
the studio to buy, shoot, and then advertise it as the rot-
tenest story we had ever received, and let the author's
name be proclaimed in letters three feet high. Another
Best Seller wrecked his hero in the North Atlantic, and,

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 339

after drifting about for a few days, had him fetch up on
a cannibal island! Some geography, eh? No; these
great authors should be stingy with their brickbats while
they send us in such bunk and junk.

The delightful fiction that we are immensely impressed
by big names has caused some of the agencies to try a
very silly trick. I received a colorless tale one day from
a fellow whose stuff I had bought before ; but in this case
I found it necessary to return it. A few weeks later I
was speaking to a friend in another studio about the
affair, and he told me he had that day received the same
story from a certain agency, but that it now bore the
names of a pair of famous authors.

The authors were, no doubt, quite innocent of part-
nership in this crude effort of salesmanship.

There are a number of fake agencies that are pests to
us and worthless to the patrons. A small few of them,
however, seem to exercise some degree of intelligent selec-
tion. In any event they send in nice, clean copy. At
that, most studios prefer dealing directly with the
authors.

AS TO COPYRIGHTS

Another interesting peek into the minds of the
scenario writers comes from the cashier's office. The
clerks tell us that the old writers cash their checks im-
mediately, but that new ones sometimes keep them for
months, and the dirt and thumb marks show eloquently
with what pride they have been exhibited to the pop-
eyed villagers.

Notwithstanding the fact that big, responsible com-
panies are paying for everything they get, there are a

340 FILM FOLK

great many suspicious geniuses in garrets and garages
who will take no chances ; so they have all their precious
children copyrighted. I know of a ease where an auto-
mobile salesman brought forth such a lovely plot that he
would not even trust the mail. He jumped on a train
and went right down to "Washington to attend to his own
copyrighting. It was an expensive trip, but he learned
many things — among the most important, that one can-
not copyright a plot or situation. One may copyright a
story in fiction form ; or, if turned into a photo-drama,
the finished cinema production may be protected by reg-
istering a few inches of film from each scene.

This inability to hold tight to one's little situation sim-
ply proves to some minds that the enormous wealth of
the studios has been used to corrupt our lawmakers, so
that we can go right on with our stealings. But these
indignant fellows ought to realize that, if Congress had
permitted the copyrighting of plots, the whole industry
would have been tied up years ago and about twenty men
would be supplying our entire literature. Think of own-
ing the copyright to this idea: A big brute of a man
falls in love with a fragile little woman, who fears and
dreads him. He carries her off and, by force or compro-
mise, compels her to marry him. As time goes on she
discovers great nobility in the heart of her cave-man and
ultimately grows to love him. If that idea had been
copyrighted we should have been denied several splendid
books, a dozen or so of our best photo-plays, and one of
the finest dramas of the age — The Great Divide.

There is no doubt that many of the plagiarisms we
receive were unconsciously made, for the writers are too
obviously sincere. A fellow has read a book or seen a

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 341

play a long while ago and has quite forgotten it, when
one day an incident conies into his life that awakens in
his subconscious mind the old plot. No one is more sur-
prised than these same writers when they find they have
developed plots quite the same as the originals. The
earnestness and enthusiasm with which many writers
send in the Diamond Necklace plot is too genuine to sus-
pect them of deliberate theft. The same phenomenon
occurs right on the lot. We ourselves have some amazing
examples of unconscious — sneer, gol-ding it, sneer! —
plagiarism.

WHEN HUNDREDS THINK ALIKE

Another fact that should be considered is this: A
hundred million people, living under the same physical
and psychological conditions — like the high cost of living
and war, for instance — are likely to be thinking in very
similar terms, with the result that at any given time
hundreds of people will be writing about the same thing ;
and it would be strange indeed if many of them did not
cover the same idea.

"We were making a five-reel picture a while ago that
dealt with the life of a war baby, grown to manhood.
"We had no sooner started the first scenes than we re-
ceived a submission from a fellow in Brooklyn that dealt
with the same theme in almost the same way ; and, more
remarkable, the locale was identical. This latter resem-
blance made it absolutely necessary to purchase the
Brooklyn story; for, though we might have entirely
changed the treatment of our plot, we could not go to
the expense of painting new sets.

Last autumn the manager of one of the large studios

342 FILM FOLK

wrote to two of his regular scenario writers, living miles
apart in the East, to send him stories on the subject of
youthful military training. When the scripts arrived it
was discovered that both authors had taken the boy-
scout idea and had developed it almost identically. He
was going East at the time ; so he invited the authors to
meet him for lunch in New York. One can imagine their
surprise when each read the other's story. With the
best of good sportsmanship, they "shook" to see whose
story should be accepted. If either scenario had been
used without this literary show-down, the loser would
have felt convinced that his story had been stolen.

So it can be seen that the studios have a fine job on
their hands in convincing suspicious authors that they
are not the burglars their past reputations seem to
justify. There are really so few plots that only in a new
treatment can anyone claim originality; so, unless a
writer sees his story on the screen, situation for situa-
tion, and with a succession of local details that could not
be coincidental, he should be very careful in his cry of
plagiarism.

Ever since Milestones appeared upon the stage and
Intolerance upon the screen, we have received many of
the so-called epoch stories. We turn them all in to the
"puzzle" department. If, in the greatest example of
this new dramatic experiment, one was sometimes fearful
lest Belshazzar should be run over by an automobile, one
can imagine what would happen were the several parallel
themes handled by a lesser genius. We have one tangle
that the continuity fellows take out and play with just
as other people play chess.

One of the hardest tasks of the scenario department

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 343

is in demanding true stories of true life from the au-
thors, and then having to reconcile them to the demands
of the boss for happy endings. True life does n 't always
end thus. Then, again, most of our bosses are firmly
convinced that all human motives spring from senti-
mental love of lad and lass — at least, no story is complete
without the goo stuff.

I once O.K. 'd a scenario that was unique in that it had
not a woman in it. The story told of a degenerate Mex-
ican boy, of early Californian days, who was won back
to his faith by witnessing the good works of the padres.
It was a simple tale, with strong dramatic situations,
lots of color, some fine lost-in-the-desert mirage stuff, and
a splendid chance to show the Old Missions in the height
of their glory and usefulness.

We bought and shot the story, and the author came out
to see it projected at the studio. You may imagine his
chagrin when the first scene opened with a bunch of
beautiful senoritas! Then strange things followed.
Three whole reels of the wildest adventure had been
introduced, just to show how Pedro had become bad;
thus is a simple two-reeler padded out to make a feature
picture. When at last the story began, the poor little
author found that the padres and the missions had be-
come merely atmosphere, and the lad would be saved
from sin by the sensuous-eyed Delphiana. Then, in the
last reel, came the wedding-bells and the same old clinch
for the final fade-out.

When the broken-hearted author remonstrated with
the boss for reducing his story to the common denomi-
nator of the other ninety-nine, this intellectual giant
replied :

344 FILM FOLK

"We think we know our business, Roberts; and your
story wouldn't have got over to the boneheads in the
front seats. There 's only one safe subject that always
gets across, and that 's the love stuff."

"But," said the struggling one, "love may express
itself in many ways. Men will die for their country, for
political ideals, for sheer adventure at the North Pole,
for their inventions, and lots of things besides romantic
love."

"Not at our studio," answered the Intelligence.

"When Mr. Lewis became manager of our company,
this great purveyor of the photo-drama left and became
the head of a rival company. A scenario man over there
told me that when one of Charles Dickens' stories was
under consideration at the studio, the boss had ordered
him to cable Dickens to see whether they could buy the
picture rights! Is it any wonder that much of our
photo-drama seems to have been addressed to "the bone-
heads in the front seats"?

It is a notorious fact that many good stories have been
fearfully mangled by mediocre-minded men in positions
of authority. But forward-looking companies, recog-
nizing the supreme importance of the story, are seeking
out high-grade men and women for this work. The days
of the jolly robbers — or, what was esthetically worse, the
single-track minds — are happily near an end.

A MOTION-PICTURE SCHOOL

When I came to the Filmart I found a whole new con-
ception of the moving-picture business. Charles Mills,
the director-general, and his brother William, scenario
editor, were well-known dramatists before they came

PLOTS AND COUNTBEPLOTS 345

into the business ; and, though they brought with them a
vast knowledge of the stage, they recognized that here
they were confronting a new art form. So for two
years they very carefully felt their way along, whUe
evolving this promising organization.

It was their modesty that saved these men from the
disasters of many a jaunty novelist and playwright who
thought the making of pictures was a child's art. The
discovery of the amazing complexities of this curious
mixture of all the arts made them decide that, if men
were ever to write intelligently for the screen, they
must have a profound knowledge of its technic. So a
photo-dramatic school for writers was established in con-
nection with the studio, right on the lot. Our school-
rooms are in a little row of bungalows way over in a
quiet, shaded spot, away from the noise and turmoil ; no
telephones, cigarette borrowers, story-tellers, or other
pests of the usual scenario department, bother us. I
often wonder now how we ever knew what we were read-
ing or writing in those awful dramatic boiler-shops of
other days.

William Mills is our prex; and attendiug his little
school are three of the best-known dramatists of America,
one famous novelist, three short-story writers, two dra-
matic critics, and several exceptional scenario writers
who have grown up in the business. Besides these very
high brows, there are several of us ferrets, with queer
heads like cantaloupes, who read the submissions. As
strange a bunch of students as ever wrecked a bar !

What is our curriculum? Well, first of all, for a
month or two the student just follows a director about,
watching him shoot. Here he learns the action on the

346 FILM FOLK

narrow stage; the dramatic and pictorial use of the
close-up, the distance of registration ; how to time scenes
by film footage ; the best lengths for different purposes ;
how to register letter-writing, telephone conversations,
and the innumerable pantomimic stunts that have de-
manded entirely new dramatic symbols. Finally he will
learn from the director the fine art of carrying continu-
ity through scenes that are not made in their proper
sequence.

Next comes work in the mechanical departments. In
the laboratory he will learn the marvels of the dark
room — ^how double exposures, dissolves, fade-outs, and
the various camera tricks are made. Then he goes to the
camera, where he studies the various shots and distances,
and how the speed of the action can be altered by chang-
ing the speed in camera-cranking. Next the student
must learn how scenes are lighted — the use of the differ-
ent lights in the various combinations. He must even
go out on location and see how carefully the lighting is
studied and recorded, so that it will correspond with the
studio shots. His hardest and most complex mechanical
job is learning how continuity of action is made and
arranged in the cutting room.

THE PUZZLE DEPARTMENT

After a few exciting months at this outside work, the
embryonic playwright is finally landed in the "puzzle
department, ' ' where he learns the bewildering technic of
writing continuity. This is the final working script from
which the picture is shot and cut ; and so complete is it —
at least, at our studio — that every direction which goes
to the making of a picture is included. The action, all

PLOTS AND COUNTEEPLOTS 347

business, different camera shots in the same scene, the
dialogue the actors speak, and even the lighting are so
minutely given that the director has merely to follow
the script.

When a student has been "graduated," it is supposed
he is qualified to take an ordinary story and translate it
into photo-dramatic terms that will be perfectly under-
stood by every department on the lot. And it is these
graduates, mates, that scenario-ize your deep-sea tales;
and you ought to be glad they fall into such capable
hands. And, furthermore, it is because most of you
know nothing of all this technical stuff that the studios —
all that I know, at least — urgently desire that you send
your stuff in short-story form or in a simple synopsis.
If your story survives the handicap of the scenario form
and continuity so glibly taught by many schools, it will
have to be done over again, for no two studios have the
same technical working script. So well understood is
this fact, that even the best of our writers first send us
nothing but synopses.

One can't learn studio technic while sailing the deep
blue sea ; so most of you will have to submit your master-
pieces to the hands of trained translators — Whence, our
school. And I want to repeat, so as to make it good and
strong, that you are darned lucky when your story is
translated by trained men and women of education.
Most writers, if they only knew, would be mighty proud
to have these well-known artists as collaborators. I
have accepted some rather doubtful stories that became
masterly productions when they had gone through this
particular mill.

And there is no use in getting all worked-up because

348 FILM FOLK

you don't know our language. The fact that a man
writes a good short story does not mean he can write for
the screen. Novelists have rarely been good dramatists
for their own works; and even the dramatist, though
much better equipped than the novelist, cannot write a
film play without understanding this new art form. A
story written in narrative form becomes, on the screen,
simply a series of illustrated subtitles, and a modem
conversational play would be mostly subtitles, with an
occasional picture. In the films, characters are not de-
scribed, but must be established by the things they do;
and the plot cannot be developed or unfolded in conver-
sational dialogue, but must be told, as nearly as possible,
in dramatic action. Factors like these make the photo-
drama an art form differing from the story, stage, and
canvas, yet borrowing much from each ; so it is silly for
the dramatist and story-teller to object to our transla-
tions of their arts to the screen. Music written for the
clarinet is not played upon the violin.

So it is in our unique little school — ^which has within
it the seed of the future academy of photo-dramatics —
that we are gradually training a group of men and
women from whom we hope to get our best plays.

What chance, then, you ask, has the free-lance writer
to sell his scenarios? Every chance in the world. The
staff writers could not possibly fill all the needs of the
studio, and it would not be desirable if they could, for
they would soon grow stale ; so we go right on buying all
the good stuff we can lay hold of, and cry for more. But
this must be remembered : the story we purchase may be
greatly changed by the time it appears upon the silver
screen ; and this is bound to be the case until more of our

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 349

photo-dramatists know their profession from its produc-
tion side.

So starved are the studios for good stories that, if we
find a writer with the faiatest promise, we nurse him
along by advice and criticism, often endeavoring to sell
his stuff to other studios if it is unsuitable for our own.
If he improves a whole lot, we may send for him ; but if
he shows big-league ability, we just buy him outright,
slam him into school, and then hope for the best. I
might parenthetically remark that the other members
of our company are jocularly jealous of our school ; and
because of our very exclusive isolation they have dubbed
us "the educated lepers !" This is high praise, however,
compared with some of the names we get in our daily
mail.

GOING THROUGH THE MILL

Just for fun, indignant author, let 's follow your ac-
cepted story through our particular Mills, and see what
happens to it when it is revised by William and shot by
Charles. First of all, as scenario editor, William Mills
writes commentary notes on the dramatic action, psychol-
ogy of the plot, and the larger factors ; he then turns the
story over to two other trained dramatists — without his
notes — and they each write their criticisms. The three
then meet to find, if possible, a common base. When
this is done a trained author is called in; and, after a
thorough going over with the three editors, he goes off to
write a reconstructed story. After this is accomplished
the author again meets the three editors, and if the re-
constructed story is satisfactory, he goes off again, this
time to make a more fully developed tale. When this is

350 FILM FOLK

O. K'd by Mr. Mills, the director is next called into con-
sultation with him and the author. As the director is
the one who paints the picture, his suggestions are sym-
pathetically sought and always adopted, unless too vio-
lently opposed to the author and the editors.

Outside authors are always furiously indignant be-
cause we don't shoot their stories exactly as they are
written. Well, here is something they must all recon-
cile themselves to: it can't be done. Even if the author
writes his own continuity, directs the picture, and acts
the lead himself, he will be surprised to find how differ-
ent the finished picture will be from his original visuali-
zation of it. After having everything possible indicated
in the script, the director's work is still highly creative,
for it is largely a matter of dramatic emphasis and in-
flection. Two violinists may each play the same melody
and get in all the notes, yet one will be music and the
other noise. Two directors may each exactly follow the
same script, but one will produce a work of art and the
other "just a moving picture."

It is almost impossible for two men to visualize the
same pictures from a particular story. The author may
have a consciousness of how it would look to him, but he
cannot possibly make anyone else see this. If a mu-
sician should play a piece called The Babbling Brook,
the brooks evolved in the imaginations of the audience
would differ with every person. This will perhaps ex-
plain the surprise that many scenario writers experience
when they go to see a picture they have sold.

But to return to the mill: After full consultation
with the director, the author takes the story and writes
the continuity. In our little school we are taught that

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 351

continuity is to the synopsis what lines of spoken play
are to its construction; consequently the writing of it
calls for the highest degree of dramatic ability and psy-
chological knowledge, and should, therefore, be done by a
real author — preferably the one who has been in con-
sultation throughout the grind.

Attached to the continuity are the scene plots, props,
locations, costumes, cast, estimate of cost, and every
necessary item to start the huge machinery of the studio
at work to build the picture.

It has taken weeks and weeks to get to the point where
the picture is to be shot ; and, though the author is given
full credit for the story, it can be seen, from what I have
told, that its dramatization has been the work of many
sets of brains.

The travel of the story through all this elaborate ma-
chinery will be strange news to the jolly writers on ele-
vated trains, who think that all one has to do is to jot
down a plot on the back of an envelope, send it in, and see
the picture run just that way.

The old-fashioned directors blow up when they are
confronted by the new order. They think our directors
are nothing but glorified camera men. This, however, as
we have seen, is not the case, for the director was con-
sulted about the story and helped largely with the con-
tinuity — the point being that, when the last detail is de-
cided in advance, the whole plant can be set at work on
a schedule, and the picture made better and in much less
time than under the old inspirational and temperamental
methods of the individualistic directors. If ever there
was a social product, it is the film drama. So impor-
tant is the smooth running of the elaborate machine.

352 FILM FOLK

that no director is now allowed to change the script in
any noticeable way without consultation with the sce-
nario editor and the continuity man.

This reading of scenarios is just like mining — there is
always a delicious hope that one is going to find gold.
Sometimes we strike a lead that peters out; once in a
while we dig up a little low-grade ore that is worth smelt-
ing; and then, about once a month, we clap our hands
for joy when we come upon a shining nugget. But, alas,
it often turns out to be brass ! Let me flash one on you
which is very much like the others, except that it is a
little bit brassier :

Editoe Scenaeio Depabtment,

Filmart Studio.

Dear Sir: You will see by my letterhead that I am a success
in magazine work. Have decided to do scenarios. Am prepared
to furnish you — on forty-eight hours' notice — two or five-reel
dramas, eight-reel features, one, two and split-reel comedies, or
anything else you may desire. I will also write subtitles for
educational films that will put a punch in them. As I am a
business man, I wish to know your terms in advance. And what
guaranty can you give me that my stuff will not be appropriated
without compensation?

Sincerely yours,

J. GOODBICH Cbust.

These beautiful promises, whose fulfillment would have
meant a permanent vacation to our poor overworked
staff, were crowded way down in the comer of a letter
that was otherwise occupied by a splendid half-tone like-
ness of this gelatin genius, garlanded about with repro-
ductions of magazines that had been honored by his pen ;
then, spilling down the sides in modest tones of red, lav-

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 353

ender, and green, were quoted clippings which told of the
rare approval his stories had evoked.

TO TOM, DICK, AND HARET

We just love these efficiency authors, though we rarely
buy their stories; but this chap was so promising that
I sent him a night-letter asking for samples and agreeing
to put up a bond of five thousand dollars that we would
not take any of his stories "off him," no matter how
great the provocation. But, unlike his brother adver-
tising authors, he never even replied to our generous
offer.

So, after aU our golden hopes have gone up in smoke,
we have to get right back to Tom, Dick, and Harry.
And, in order that you three old stand-bys may work a
little more intelligently, I am going to give you a few
rules and suggestions for your guidance:

Tom: For the love of Mike, write about Dick and
Harry. Don't think you must go to Rome or Rio for
your story. There are tales right in the shirt depart-
ment, across the aisle, that would go big on the screen —
if you only knew what they are. I have a hunch, from
things I 've heard you say, that your boss, though per-
haps not so colorful, is a worse pirate than ever roved
the Spanish Main. Go after him ; he may be good for
five reels. Whatever you do, write about the places and
people you know ; and if the tale is a bit rough, leave the
happy ending to us — ^that is the best thing we make.

Dick: Forget your silly copyrights — ^you can't stop
our stealing if we should get another spell ; cut out the
"scenario form"; don't dare attempt continuity, but
write us a simple synopsis of five hundred words, or a

354 FILM FOLK

short story of five thousand — with a synopsis. If you do
this, we won't have to use the divining rod or employ a
staff of clairvoyants to locate your idea. But remember
this: A bunch of episodes is not a story; nor is a series
of loosely related incidents that fail to work to a climax.
We sometimes buy simple ideas for a fair price and keep
them in stock, just as we do film. We pay no royalties,
except to famous authors; stories are bought outright —
that is, the film privileges are bought. If you think you
can sell your story to the Bird Center Bugle after we
have shot it, go to it.

Harry: Don't send dour tragedies to a studio that
employs thirty companies of exclusively custard-pie
throwers; nor to the companies who have never made a
slap-stick in their gelatin lives should you contribute
comedies that would necessitate the employment of a
regiment of pastry cooks. Throughout the foregoing
tale I have purposely used fictitious names for scenario
editors and studios ; so do not address your stuff to them.
You will find that most studios advertise their needs in
the trade magazines; so, if you would save us perspira-
tion and yourself postage, just shoot at the right targets.

THE LION STUNT

However, I want to warn you about farce comedy ; it 's
easy to write, but darned hard to sell. One of the big-
gest comedy companies in the country has not accepted
half a dozen scripts in the past year. They write all
their own. Comedies of situation are, on the other hand,
the rarest jewels we seek, and a good one will seU in-
stantly. Another tip, Harry: Unless you are an ani-
mal trainer don't send in the jungle stuff. The fact

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 355

that you may be a little wild in spots, or have even tamed
a vamp, doesn't qualify you to write the animal stuff.
These stories are always written in collaboration with the
feUow who trains the savage leads.

I know of but one animal picture that was made from
an outside idiot's scenario. This chap, to show how the
girl won the heart of the king of beasts, had her pull a
thorn out of his majesty's paw with her fair young
teeth. Now anybody who knows aught about the cats
will tell you that you may put your pin-head in the lion 's
mouth, but he won't put his paw in yours — not while he
lives. And the joke on this author was that we made
the picture because we happened to have a dead lion at
the time. After getting a little footage of the girl fool-
ing with the live boy, trying to get hold of his paw, we
then shot to a close-up of the girl clutching the leg of the
cold-storage lion and pulling the thorn out with her
teeth. The claws were made to open and shut by manip-
ulating the muscles of the foreleg. But don't hand us
another, Harry, for we can't kill a thousand-dollar lion
to get an impossible story. Remember, we have drama-
tized everything in the Zoo, from elephants to trained

And to all three of you I would suggest that you do
not ask for criticism of your work. We cannot afford to
ran a correspondence school; and, besides, you wouldn't
like us if we told you the truth. After all, a check is
the most satisfactory critique we could offer. And,
above all, I beg of you to choke back that distressing im-
pulse to suggest that we might steal your story while we
have it in our treacherous hands. You would be abso-
lutely amazed at the amount of stuff we don't steal.

356 FILM FOLK

The other evening, at dinner, Mrg. Belden made a curi-
ous observation.

"Sam," she said, "the schools and colleges are always
asserting that their greatest function is to develop self-
expression. If this is true, the moving-picture industry-
is the grandest educational institution the world has ever
seen. From the janitors in the bowels of our office-
buildings to the solemn owls of our supreme courts, all
the human earnivora are writing for the screen; and,
even though they never sell a single scenario, just think
of the practice they are getting in self-expression !"

THE END